


Polestar

by Kiranokira



Series: Shenanigans from the 2017–18 Figure Skating Season [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Relationships, Celestino Cialdini and the Shit He Didn't Sign Up For, Dating Phichit Inevitably Results in More Friends, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Katsuki Yuuri and the Advice He Doesn't Feel Qualified to Give, Lee Seung-gil and the Excessive Number of Friends-in-Law, M/M, Phichit Chulanont and the Boyfriend Who Is Trying Really Really Hard, Viktor Nikiforov and the FaceTime Conversations on Which He Gleefully Eavesdrops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 103,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiranokira/pseuds/Kiranokira
Summary: Seung-gil's world has always been a little underpopulated. As of October 2017, he had a coach he couldn't connect with, a team he kept at arm's length, a family he couldn't confide in, and recently: a friend he had only recently come to trust.Two months later, his coach is gone, his team is strained, his family is concerned, his friend has become much, much more, and everything around him is spiraling.Meanwhile, the 2018 Winter Olympics is looming.





	1. 2001-2017

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [Feathers on the Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854272). Enjoy! :D/

Seung-gil thrives on simplification.

While the people around him appear to revel in life’s tangles and chaos and excess, he works constantly to build a world founded on clarity and order and minimalism. He’s explained this very basic concept to many journalists ever since he became an athlete of international interest at sixteen, but none of them have ever seemed to correctly absorb what he’s saying.

The journalist seated before him right now appears especially puzzled by him. She tips her head to one side and says, “Of course having control is nice sometimes, but you can’t say you don’t enjoy _some_ of the unexpected joys in life, can you?”

Her smile is somehow both earnest and synthetic, and it hasn’t changed at all in curvature since he introduced himself to her eleven minutes ago. It’s distracting, so he focuses on the microphone clipped to the collar of her jacket.

“No, I can’t,” he says.

The long pause that follows implies that she expected something more detailed from him, which is remarkably optimistic of her considering the pattern of his answers so far. Three syllables is more than generous, in his opinion.

She carries on with a clichéd segue into her next line of questioning about his Olympic medal prospects in PyeongChang, so he chooses to tune her out and instead wonders when he implied that he’s averse to life’s surprises. He’s dating one of them.

And where did her comment about control come from? He wasn’t talking about control. Did it sound like he was?

He only told her that he strives for simplicity in all aspects of his life.

Part of doing that involves keeping his world small. He knows it will only expand as wide as the connections he makes to other people, and he knows better than to include more people than necessary in his life.

•

It’s 2001 and Seung-gil is five years old, practicing compulsory figures on the ice, even though he doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing. He just likes making circles in the center where no one else is skating. He makes one circle after another on the clean sheet of ice below him until he’s satisfied that they’re as perfect as he can get them to look.

He’s never felt so…alert.

He often gets in trouble at school and at home for looking vague, and he always tells the impatient faces around him that the world is hazy for him and that he doesn’t particularly _care_ about what happens outside his immediate vicinity. He doesn’t understand why things have to be so direly important, and why anyone wants him to participate in anything.

It isn’t until he’s gliding over the crisp figure eight he’s made in the ice—tracing once, twice, ten times, until he’s made a definite groove—that he connects to something he’ll later identify as his life’s purpose.

•

Min-so comes into the picture three months later to act as his coach.

•

Dae-sung is the oldest of the Lee children and he has always taken his role as such very seriously. It’s also made him the easiest for their grandmother to manipulate, something she seems to enjoy doing.

In the spring of 2006, when she says Dae-sung’s name from the door of the living room, he twists around on the sofa like he’s been electrified and says, “Yes, Grandmother?”

She’s a small, wiry woman, with lightning white veins streaked through her black hair, and she likes forcing people to communicate without the use of words. “Your brother, Hae-il,” she says, then fills the ensuing silence with a meaningful lift of her eyebrow.

“I–I don’t know where he is, Grandmother,” Dae-sung says, as if it’s a personal failing he’s loath to admit to.

Seung-gil, ten years old and sprawled on the opposite sofa with his laptop open, ignores both of them. He’s busy tracking down a list of recent scores on the Viktor Nikiforov message board.

“I’d like you to find him,” their grandmother says, “and the two of you will take Seung-gil to his ice show this afternoon.”

Seung-gil lifts his chin, instantly mulish. “Why?” he demands.

Her gaze skims over his face as if she’s trying to remember who he is.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Dae-sung says, and it’s the emotionless subservience in his voice that gives away how little he’d like to do what she’s asked him. But he stands up and leaves dutifully.

Seung-gil focuses on glaring at their grandmother and doesn’t spare the extra energy to watch him go. “You said you and Grandfather would take me,” Seung-gil reminds her. He’s playing into her hands, he realizes a second too late.

“Yes,” she agrees, “and I’ve decided you should spend the time with your brothers instead. You’re becoming too much like me. It would do you good to have other influences.”

He screws up his face in disapproval. Dae-sung is insufferable and Hae-il is a whole other sort of _influence_ , and not one he imagines anyone wants him learning from. “I don’t like them,” he points out. “And they don’t like me.”

She doesn’t confirm or deny that, likely because it would be a waste of time to debate something they both know is true.

“You make no effort to be liked,” she says.

“ _You_ like me.” It’s another indisputable truth: that his grandmother and his mother are the only ones who do.

“I am bound by favoritism,” she agrees, “but there are few like us in the world, Seung-gil. You mustn’t wait for like-minded people to find you. You aren’t enough like me that the long wait won’t disappoint you.”

He doesn’t think that’s true, and he knows if he argues with her that she’ll listen to him, that being ten years old isn’t as much of a character flaw in her eyes as it is in others’, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” he says, stung and trying not to show it, and turns an unseeing stare back to his laptop screen.

She leaves without another word, which he’s both grateful for and resentful of. She could at least have the decency to apologize for leaving this announcement for the day of the show.

When Hae-il tromps into the room ten minutes later and gives Seung-gil a baleful scowl and says, “We’re leaving early, dungeon gnome,” Seung-gil only grunts in response, resigned to having his favorite thing tainted by his older brothers’ interference.

•

It turns out that Hae-il wants to “hang out” with “some friends” “on the way”, and Dae-sung decides it’s a good opportunity for him to buy some books for university, so they stop at Hae-il’s favorite hunting ground and he peels off toward a side street swarming with other teenagers. Two guys who appear to have visited Hae-il’s plastic surgeon at least twice before peel off from the crowd and gather Hae-il into the fold. Dae-sung sighs as he seems to realize he’s the one stuck with Seung-gil and says, “Come with me,” as he heads in the opposite direction toward the bookshop.

Seung-gil follows him, grateful at least that he’s with the brother who’s quiet by nature.

He has no interest in books—Dae-sung and the twins monopolized that particular gene—and so he occupies himself by lurking just outside the reach of Dae-sung’s shadow while checking the time on his flip phone every few minutes and recalculating the time they’ll arrive at the rink.

 _Click._  
14:49  
71 minutes to showtime.  
ETA 15:04  
_Click._

 _Click._  
15:14  
46 minutes to showtime.  
ETA 15:31  
_Click._

It occurs to him once or twice that if he doesn’t speak up, his brothers might just skip the whole thing. Then he relishes in a swell of smug triumph as he remembers that he has all three tickets in his pocket.

When their comfortable window of time slims down to a harrowing fifteen minutes, Seung-gil says, “Bye,” and heads off toward the exit, wondering if taxi drivers accept money from minors.

Dae-sung catches him by the jacket collar and sighs, “Yes, _okay_.”

•

Hae-il is tetchy from being dragged away from his friends—he, it seems, _did_ intend on skipping the show—and he tries to pick a fight with Dae-sung all the way to the rink.

Seung-gil doesn’t care. He still has the tickets, and now Dae-sung is the one who’ll pay for the taxi.

“We could have just stuck him in the taxi on his own,” Hae-il snipes, giving Seung-gil a poisonous look. As the youngest, Seung-gil is in the middle seat, with an ill-tempered sibling on either side.

“You could have,” Seung-gil agrees. “I would have been fine. I know how to take taxis by myself.”

“ _See?_ ”

Dae-sung pretends he can’t hear either of them, absorbed in his phone. He’s only playing a game, but he’s very good at making his face look solemn regardless of what he’s actually doing.

Hae-il huffs and throws himself against the back of the seat.

Seung-gil isn’t normally the type to antagonize, but it’s mostly Hae-il’s fault they’re cutting it so close, so he asks, “Are you sixteen or six?” in his flattest tone.

Hae-il’s eyes roll toward the window, a hot breath shot out his nose. Seung-gil thinks that’s the end of it, and then Hae-il punches him in the side.

“Hey!” the driver snaps, peering in the rearview mirror. “Act your age!”

Dae-sung’s need to be the perfect citizen outweighs his personal frustrations of the day and he closes his phone to make it seem like he’s not part of the problem.

Needless to say, the bitter mood they set out with is no better by the time they reach their seats in the arena, and Seung-gil just wants them to go away, to be by himself.

•

His first impression of Phichit is laughter. He’s never been drawn to a person by a sound before, but that’s all he is to Seung-gil at first. A bright sound, somehow sailing above the dull roar of chatter around him.

Seung-gil finds the source without a problem. It’s a boy, three rows lower, immersed in the bulky, professional-looking camera in his hands.

Beside him is a woman who’s probably the boy’s mother. She’s a strange sort of person, somehow managing to engage not only the teenage white girl beside her but also the Chinese family of four in the row behind her.

She catches Seung-gil’s eye during a lull in the conversation and offers him the kind of warm smile she probably used to get all those people to talk to her so openly.

To his surprise, he finds his chest suddenly sore. He blinks back at her.

She returns to her conversation, swiveling this way and that to keep every one of her audience involved. The boy smiles up at his mother with obvious adoration.

Hae-il and Dae-sung barely look up from their phones as Seung-gil leaves his seat.

“He’s probably going to recite stats at the skaters,” Hae-il mutters, and Dae-sung snorts.

There’s an empty seat next to the boy, so Seung-gil drops into it.

The boy smiles.

Seung-gil has no plan. He focuses on the ice, his breath stuck in his throat. What is he doing? Why did he come down here?

The boy’s eyes shine with curiosity and _life_ , eagerness beaming out of him like a tiny but enthusiastic sun. He takes a breath to speak, and Seung-gil snaps out of his daze.

He jolts up and moves across the aisle, too terrified to make it back to his seat where his brothers will only ask him invasive questions.

The lights dim and the music blares, but Seung-gil doesn’t dare look over until the arena is dark.

The boy’s eyebrows are tucked in, his mouth pursed in disappointment.

Seung-gil sneaks back up to his brothers and doesn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

Their grandmother isn’t pleased.

He’s glad.

•

Min-so is a refreshing presence in his life at first, similar enough to his grandmother to feel familiar while boasting some stark differences. Like his grandmother, she doesn’t lavish him with praise or emotion when he does particularly well, but unlike his grandmother, she seems to enjoy talking quite a lot, and he often wishes she’d learn to summarize so he can get back to the practical aspects of the sport more quickly.

She has a plethora of work outside coaching Seung-gil and his rinkmates, and she never lets them forget how precious her time is.

“I don’t have any extra time to spend with you today, Tae-woo!”

“If you don’t get this right in the next twenty minutes, you’ll have wasted your time and mine, Seung-gil!”

“Tighten your core, Ji-na! How much time do I have to spend on your form every time we practice?”

“That’s fine, Jung-oh, but you’re still traveling, and I’d like to see you get it perfect before I leave.”

Seung-gil isn’t bothered by the criticism. Some of the best coaches in the world act like this, he’s heard. Even Viktor Nikiforov’s coach is a bastion of criticism, apparently, and if fault can be found in the skater many are starting to call the best of all time, an inexperienced teenager with no medals to his name has no place feeling wronged when he hears his own failings pointed out by his coach.

It helps that she’s usually right. She also doesn’t dress up her instructions with gentle delivery or cautious wording, which makes everything much clearer.

Under close scrutiny, Seung-gil’s rinkmates are the only truly unsatisfying element of his training. Ji-na is still a child and she giggles whenever she falls or flubs a jump, learning nothing. Jung-oh is his age and practices diligently, but he has a habit of intruding into Seung-gil’s space on the ice. But the worst of them is Tae-woo.

By some unlucky stroke of fate, Seung-gil and Tae-woo attend the same high school. It’s a mutual unspoken agreement they’ve reached never to speak to each other. If their gazes meet across a room by mistake, they exchange grimaces, equally unhappy, and take care to pretend it never happened.

Tae-woo is, simply put, a moron. He’s a year younger than Seung-gil, but he has the arrogance of someone twice his age with twice the experience and half the manners. He has raw talent, but Min-so isn’t impressed by it. When Tae-woo points this out to her once with petulance in his voice, she explains, “Talent is nothing without a work ethic twice as strong.” The implication that he doesn’t _have_ that work ethic is abundantly clear.

Seung-gil, meanwhile, has three times the work ethic of all his rinkmates combined.

And Min-so knows it.

•

He’s fourteen when an unfamiliar white man appears at the rink with a darker, beaming boy Seung-gil’s age.

Min-so notices them enter and tells Seung-gil, Tae-woo, and Jung-oh to skate backward crossovers until she comes back. Then she accompanies Ji-na to the exit where Ji-na’s mother and the visitors are waiting.

Tae-woo tries to engage Jung-oh in whispering about the newcomers, but Jung-oh tells him in a flat voice to shut up and focus. Tae-woo does, reluctantly, and shows his displeasure by slamming his blades down a little harder than necessary. When he inevitably stumbles over his feet and faceplants on the ice, Seung-gil rolls his eyes.

Moron.

Seung-gil has even less interest than Jung-oh, and glides in crisscrossing circles without conscious thought for anything else.

When Min-so calls them over, Seung-gil sighs. He could do without prolonged, unnecessary breaks in his concentration, especially for something so obviously unconnected to his training.

As he approaches the rink wall where everyone has gathered, Seung-gil is a little disturbed to see Min-so’s severe features arranged in a way he’s never seen before. Open affection and genuine mirth paint her face with ease as she introduces the white man as “Coach Celestino”, one of her contemporaries from her competitive days.

He smiles at all three of the boys and says, “Nice to meet you,” in clumsy, sodden Korean.

Once stiff greetings have been exchanged—and Tae-woo has made an ass of himself imitating the Thai kid’s greeting—Seung-gil and Jung-oh wait to be dismissed. Seung-gil is already planning to do some sit spins while Min-so isn’t paying attention. She normally has every minute of their training planned out, but Seung-gil knows he needs more work on his balance than she thinks he does, and he could use the extra practice.

To his frustration, however, Min-so and Celestino keep up their idle chatter and force their junior skaters to stand in awkward silence beside them.

It’s only when Seung-gil’s gaze passes over the Thai kid’s face a fourth time, drawn by something he can’t identify, that a pit forms in his stomach and an unreachable itch drags over his memory.

Seung-gil doesn’t let his curiosity register on his face, but he can’t manage to stop staring.

Why wasn’t he listening when Celestino said the kid’s name?

Who is he?

•

Before this Thai kid was even born, there were other Thai skaters. Famous ones, respected ones. Seung-gil can even name one who nearly made it to the Olympics in 1987, and he’s sure this boy— _Phichit_ , that's it—grew up hearing her name. Still, there hasn’t been one who’s competed on the international stage in over ten years.

There isn’t much about this kid to suggest that’s going to change any time soon.

Celestino, it’s explained, is organizing a charity event with Min-so, but that doesn’t make clear why he’s brought Phichit along. As the coaches get into particulars, they seem to remember their students growing increasingly bored and restless beside them.

“Go show them what we’ve been practicing,” Celestino says, clapping Phichit on the shoulder.

Phichit, already a solar flare of cheer, beams even brighter and nods, hurrying to the closest bench to open his bag and tug out his skates.

Jung-oh tilts his head as curiosity and intrigue etch across Tae-woo’s face.

Seung-gil dismisses all of them and skates back to the center of the ice to practice figures. No one chides him or instructs him to stop what he’s doing, so he keeps skating on his own, the world diminished to the slice of steel through ice and the curvature of each circle he makes.

It’s only when a crisp slap echoes through the arena and Jung-oh says, “Whoa,” that Seung-gil’s focus breaks.

“One more, one more!” Tae-woo cheers in broken English, like an idiot.

Seung-gil coasts to a stop, absently aware that he’s skated off-course and ruined his circle.

Phichit says, “Okay!” in slightly less accented English and takes off into a clean, confident triple toe loop.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Jung-oh repeats, eyes wide.

Phichit laughs, almost sparkling with energy and enthusiasm, and attempts a Biellmann.

For the rest of his life, Seung-gil will remember this moment, taking in the sight of Phichit on skates with charisma beaming out of every pore, and knowing that none of Thailand’s former or future skaters will be remembered the way Phichit will.

As warmth courses through Seung-gil’s veins, he remembers that smile, that laughter.

_Oh._

•

Tae-woo sails into the locker room two years later, fifteen and smug. There are six of them now: Jung-oh and Seung-gil the oldest, Tae-woo a year younger, Ji-na several years younger, and two girls whose names don’t matter to Seung-gil.

None of them do, really. If he could unlearn Tae-woo’s, he would. In an instant.

After Tae-woo drops his sports bag on the ground, he starts stretching his quads on an empty bench. “Seung-gil!” he crows.

Jung-oh and Seung-gil aren’t what anyone would call “close” or even “friends”, but over the years they’ve become reluctantly united in their potent dislike of Tae-woo. They exchange an entirely emotionless yet eloquent stare.

“What,” Seung-gil says. He furls up his school socks and drops them in his bag, measuring his patience level and how well it will stand another five minutes of Tae-woo’s voice. He could always get dressed for practice in the hallway.

He nearly recoils as a phone screen presses much too close to his face.

“Check this out,” Tae-woo says, unnecessarily.

Seung-gil drops his gaze to the socks in his hand. He pulls them out of the tucked-up ball they’re in, pretending nonchalance.

Tae-woo laughs and pulls his phone away. Seconds later, he’s out of the locker room and Seung-gil realizes he came in fully dressed for practice. He apparently just wanted to show off the most recent photo Phichit’s sent of himself, winking at the camera as he lies on the beach beside his female friend.

Jung-oh leaves the locker room with a sigh.

Seung-gil’s stomach wraps itself into hot, painful knots. He’s still holding his socks.

•

Seung-gil has perfect marks at school. It baffles him why it earns him such accolades from his teachers. Isn’t it to be expected?

His grandmother snorts from the living room sofa where she’s bent over her janggi board.

“Of course it’s expected,” she says. “Kids just don’t normally _achieve_ it. You’re not normal, boy, I keep telling you.”

He grunts back, tossing the glowing note from his principal on the table where his mother will see it later.

“Careful that doesn’t turn into arrogance,” his grandmother adds, peering up at him.

“Who cares if I am?” he says.

“Your _mother_ cares,” she says, smirking, knowing she’s got him.

He sighs, but doesn’t bother replying.

Sure enough, the warmth that fills his mother’s face and the proud tears that brim along her eyelashes later as she reads and rests her hand on top of his head—

She cares. She’s the only one who does, but she actually, genuinely cares.

•

It used to be enough.

•

At seventeen, Seung-gil knows more than he ever wanted to about Tae-woo and Phichit. Even if he can avoid hearing about it from Tae-woo directly, the girls talk about it and they now outnumber the boys, so getting away from them on the ice is impossible.

“Boys are so crass,” Ji-na is telling Da-young as Seung-gil passes them. “Tae-woo sends him photos of his _dick_. Photos! _Plural!_ ” Seung-gil huffs in exasperation—can they discuss _nothing_ else?

Even as he’s perfecting his quad toe loop halfway across the rink, he can’t corral his focus away from their unnecessarily loud and off-topic conversation.

“Why _Tae-woo_ though?” Da-young groans. “He’s so…creepy!”

“Phichit’s got a good heart,” Ji-na says with a sage inflection. “He sees the best in people.”

On cue, Tae-woo flubs his axel, falls on his ass, and lets out a barking laugh. Se-jung and Na-eun skate over, giggling, and grab either of his hands to haul him up. He yanks them both down, and as they shriek with glee, Min-so finally decides to skate over and take control of the situation.

“Never mind,” Ji-na sighs. “Phichit’s just a dumb, horny boy like the rest of them.”

Seung-gil can’t quite mask his disdain.

Somehow, she notices him and smiles. “Except you, of course.”

_‘Of course.’_

“When are you going to start speaking formally to me?” he asks her.

She wrinkles her nose. “Why would I do that? We’re the same age.”

He frowns. That…can’t be right. Can it?

Da-young bursts into peals of wild laughter, and Ji-na joins in when she realizes Seung-gil isn’t going to confirm what is already perfectly clear. He realizes with mild discomfort that if someone had asked him, he couldn’t have told them how old he _thought_ she was, just that she’s…like a child.

Deciding he’s had enough of his rinkmates for the day, Seung-gil tugs off his gloves and skates for the exit. No one stops him, although Min-so does glance at him with disapproval.

He sits on the bench in the locker room, his heart speeding despite his sedentary pose. If he goes home now, he won’t have any chance of getting past his grandmother, mother, and the twins because Sunja will give him away. She’s four months old and loves Seung-gil best, for some reason. Even though she’s confined to a fenced area in the living room until she’s house trained, she howls any time so much as a stiff breeze pushes against the front door. If she gets a whiff of her favorite human coming home, she’ll lose her mind with giddiness.

Seung-gil threads his fingers into his sweat-slick hair and sighs.

He had more planned for today. His senior debut is so close, and he’s nearly got his first quad to a reliable degree of accuracy. If he can land it in competition, he can move on to a new quad and a better, stronger routine.

The door to the locker room squeaks as it opens and Seung-gil finds himself hoping for the first time in his life that it’s Jung-oh.

“What is your _deal?_ ” Tae-woo sighs with exaggerated impatience as he swans into the locker room. “You can’t even talk to your own rinkmates. Are you one of those people with a dead sex drive? Or do you just fuck your skate sometimes and call it a day?”

Seung-gil raises an eyebrow and stares at him. His greatest weapon against a moron like Tae-woo is disengaging, so he starts to pack up to leave. He doesn’t know where he’ll go yet, but anywhere is an improvement over here.

Tae-woo keeps talking, like a kid with a sack of marbles trying to knock a beehive off a branch.

“I mean, if you’re just awkward, like—that’s sad, right? But it’s fixable. Na-eun is into you for some reason. You could fuck her, I bet. She thinks you’re pretty or whatever. I mean, I guess I can see it. When you remember to shower, you’re kind of all right.”

Seung-gil can’t quite hold back a tic of his mouth at that. It’s one of Tae-woo’s most nonsensical slights, and a rumor he’s tried to start multiple times at school, that Seung-gil is so focused on skating he rarely bathes. It worked once, the first time Tae-woo tried it, until Seung-gil’s classmates reported that Seung-gil actually smelled quite nice a lot of the time they sat near him.

But, as Seung-gil’s learned over the past seventeen years, he has few actual allies (or friends) to help him tamp out false information, and so Tae-woo keeps trying to spread fires.

“You don’t like Na-eun, though, huh?”

Seung-gil stuffs his clothes into his bag, doing away with order, and zips it up with a sharp yank.

“Hmm,” Tae-woo hums, leaning on the wall in front of the door and tracing his mouth with his index finger. “There must be _someone_ you like.”

Seung-gil slams his locker and squares off against him, estimating the odds of getting to the door without having to punch Tae-woo in the eye and getting kicked off the ice by Min-so for some crucial amount of time.

“Ooh,” Tae-woo says, grinning. “That’s a sexy face right there.”

Seung-gil sighs. “Move. I’m going home.”

Tae-woo’s expression sags into disappointment. “Oh, come on. Play the game.”

“No,” Seung-gil says. “ _Move_.”

Tae-woo recovers and offers a sweet smile. “Fine. I’ll skip to the fun part. He sucked me off.”

Seung-gil tells himself not to react, but his eyes are already on the floor, fixed there as his blood rushes through his veins.

Tae-woo snorts. “Oh, come on. This is pathetic. You _never_ talk to him. He doesn’t even _like_ you. He doesn’t even know your _name_. You just stare at him like some creepy pervert, and I know you think you’re better than me, but you know what? _Fuck. You._ I was his _first kiss_ , he sends me videos of himself jerking off, and last weekend, he put his mouth around my dick and I came _all over_ his _face_.”

Seung-gil grabs the collar of Tae-woo’s shirt and wrenches it so hard he can hear the fabric stretch and rip.

He doesn’t wait to see where Tae-woo lands, just shoves out of the locker room, trembling from head to toe.

In the taxi back to his neighborhood, he gives up the tendril of hope he never realized he was carrying.

•

He tells Phichit some of this after the 2017 GPF banquet. The two of them drank quite a lot at Viktor’s after party and have now sequestered themselves in Phichit’s hotel room.

Phichit quickly discovers that the easiest way to get information out of Seung-gil is to tease his body and then stop. Enough of that and Seung-gil has spilled most of his life story, and he blames hormones and alcohol for his weakness.

Phichit, however, only smiles and thumbs the corner of his eye, where Seung-gil is mortified to feel moisture gathering.

“He was probably afraid,” Phichit murmurs. “He must have known he wouldn’t be able compete with you. So he made you think you never had a chance.”

Seung-gil nuzzles into his neck, the alcohol cloying and silken around his mind.

Phichit strokes Seung-gil’s lower back under his shirt. “I knew your name,” he whispers. “And you’ve always been gorgeous to me.”

Seung-gil murmurs, “Stop trying to make me cry.”

“Mmm, but it’s fun seeing you emotional.”

Seung-gil pinches his ass and Phichit laughs and squirms away.

•

There are too many reasons to count why Phichit was the first person Seung-gil _wanted_ in his world.

In fact, six months out from his twenty-third birthday, there are exactly ten citizens in Seung-gil’s world: himself, his eight immediate family members (who are, like the camera app on his phone, inexpungible), and Phichit.

That’s all.

It’s simple.

It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! \:D/ Happy belated New Year, folks!
> 
> All the while I was writing Feathers, I had these little scenes from Seung-gil's earlier life floating in my head, and I'm excited to get to put them into play now. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the journey ahead!
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hadakanomind) | [Tumblr](http://kyashin.tumblr.com/)


	2. December 16-17, 2017

17:39 on December 16th, 2017 finds Seung-gil in bed, embroiled in a photo war against Phichit. The object of the game they’ve gradually created over the last two hours is to take the most incomprehensible shot without getting out of bed. Phichit is winning so far because he has a photo editing app and no affinity for sticking to the rules.

[We didn’t say they have to be raw images!] Phichit objects, then promptly sends a photo of…something that he obviously dropped the contrast on so it’s dark and fuzzy.

Seung-gil spreads his fingers against the screen with narrowed eyes, positive that Phichit has taken a photo of the inside of his shirt.

[Is that the inside of your shirt?]

[No!! What?? 55555555]

Seung-gil tilts his phone and studies the shot from a different angle. There’s definitely a very familiar dark circle in there, and he suspects he’s one of the world’s leading experts on both of Phichit Chulanont’s nipples, so….

That’s how Lee Seung-gil finds himself downloading a photo editing app, so he can lighten the contrast on a weird photo his boyfriend sent him to win a game no one else in the world cares about or even knows exists.

[Can’t figure it out?] Phichit writes. [You’re almost out of time!]

Seung-gil responds, [There’s no time limit.]

[I added one!]

[Shouldn’t we have to agree on the rules before they’re rules?]

[You mean before the rules are put into affect?]

[Effect.]

[Oh shut up. You’re out of time, anyway!]

[It IS the inside of your shirt.]

[No, it’s not!]

[It is.] Seung-gil sends back the brightened photo that clearly shows not only the inside of Phichit’s shirt, but also the piece of paper Phichit’s put over his bare chest that has a six-pack shoddily drawn on it.

[Ahahaha! Well, it’s not ONLY the inside of my shirt. Partial credit.]

Seung-gil takes a selfie of his deadpan face and sends it.

He hates selfies on principle. Phichit’s are the exception, since they’re all beautifully framed and thoughtful, like art, but the base concept of voluntarily offering yourself to the world as a pseudo-model is repugnant. But dating Phichit means he’s sometimes left with only expressions to fully communicate what he feels, and he can’t offer those expressions in person when Phichit is in another country nearly four thousand kilometers away.

It’s Seung-gil’s turn to take a photo, and he’s in the middle of searching out a potential subject in his room—maybe he can zoom in on the inside of Sunja’s ear—when another photo from Phichit arrives. This one has a clear, well-framed subject, and it’s an obvious signal that Phichit is finished playing one game and starting another.

It’s not quite a selfie in the way Seung-gil has come to expect selfies taken by Phichit to look, but it _is_ a photo Phichit’s taken of himself. A _lot_ of himself. If the subject is naked, Seung-gil wonders absently, can a photo still be considered a selfie, or does it automatically become a nude?

Granted, most of Phichit’s body in the shot is obscured behind a large aquamarine pillow, but Seung-gil would put a considerable percentage of his earnings on a bet saying Phichit’s nearest article of clothing is on the bedroom floor. The photo has been taken from a greater distance than his selfie stick is capable of reaching, so Seung-gil assumes Phichit put his phone on one of the many tripods he owns to take it.

The implicit amount of thought that went into this is dazzling.

A shiver of heat courses through Seung-gil as he enlarges the photo with a splay of his fingers. He traces his gaze over what visible smooth skin there is: Phichit’s lean, delicately defined arm is stretched over the front of the pillow, ending in long fingers that press into the fabric, and there’s a smooth, uncovered strip starting from his shoulder to the slope of his thigh.

Seung-gil’s years of trying to temper his attraction to Phichit into the guise of simple competitive admiration seem absurdly futile right now.

The shallow divot on Phichit’s hip is laughing at him.

He makes his way back across the photo to Phichit’s dark hair slicked out of his face, and the few droplets of water glistening on his neck. Seung-gil’s mind simultaneously grinds to a halt and spirals into a tailspin. It’s unclear whether or not Phichit was aiming for catatonic lust, but that’s what he’s getting.

Seung-gil saves the photo to his phone and switches over to the app holding his images so he can zoom in closer on the soft mouth he knows so well tucked into a sly smile.

It’s still abstract for Seung-gil, the reality that he has a boyfriend. Many years ago, when he realized he preferred men 100% over women, his mother reacted with relief, trusting in the stereotype that same-sex partners are easier to find. It hasn’t been the case for Seung-gil, and before Phichit reached out to him last summer, he’d accepted—if not exactly embraced—his solitary life.

It’ll take a while for the relationship he’s in to become an iron-clad fact in his mind, and then even longer after that for him to believe that the boyfriend he has is Phichit.

[I think at this juncture you have two options,] Phichit writes, his message dropping down in a notification over the photo Seung-gil can’t bring himself to stop staring at.

Seung-gil waits for Phichit to continue, but he doesn’t.

With great dignity and strength of will, Seung-gil switches apps and sends, [?]

Phichit’s answer is prompt. [You can reciprocate and send a photo of yourself...or comment on the one I sent you.]

Seung-gil considers that.

Phichit takes advantage of his silence and adds, [Did the shot kill you?]

Seung-gil sends back, [No. There was no bullet.]

[5555555555555555555]

Seung-gil allows a warm smile, then looks up the Korean for “reciprocate” and “juncture”.

Phichit writes, [If you don’t react to the photo, I’m going to get bored and try out new nicknames for you.] It isn’t an empty threat. Seung-gil doesn’t even have the time to blink before Phichit’s sending an avalanche of messages in rapid succession, each more offensive than the last.

[Sweet lips?]  
[Sugar prince?]  
[Baby muffin?]  
[Rainbow kitten?]

It isn’t nearly enough to sway his lust, but confusion makes a strong bid for his attention.

Licking his lips, Seung-gil writes back, [I can’t comment on it. I can’t think of words to describe it.]

[In a good way? ;)]

[You already know what I think about your body.]

[Mm do I?]

Seung-gil shifts, and the infinitesimal movement somehow catches Sunja’s attention. She stands and stretches, then hobbles up the bed to collapse next to Seung-gil, her head on his hip. She eyes him with bright crystal curiosity until he strokes her ears.

Maybe it’s true that he hasn’t told Phichit in words _exactly_ what he thinks, given how reluctant he is to even imagine the words right now.

Phichit’s body is…perfect. Lithe and smooth and dark and sculpted…. He always smells different, too, always experimenting with new hair products and body oils and clothing detergents. Yet underneath it all is something savory, a scent Seung-gil has only ever detected on Phichit.

[I’m joking,] Phichit writes. [You don’t have to do anything. ♡ What time are you meeting with Tabitha tomorrow?]

Seung-gil recognizes the tactic Phichit is using and frowns. Is he giving signs that he’s uncomfortable with the direction their conversation was going? He scrolls through their last few lines to each other and hums to himself. Commenting on the photo still seems like a step too far for him, but...the photo? Maybe that he can do.

“Are you okay with waiting outside for a few minutes?” Seung-gil asks Sunja, thumbing her muzzle apologetically.

He realizes his mistake in the same instant Sunja leaps to her feet, yipping in wild delight.

“Not that ‘outside’!”

It doesn’t matter what he says now—plus, he’s said “outside” twice now. Sunja rockets off the bed and into the hallway in search of his keys.

Feeling more than a touch guilty, Seung-gil follows his airheaded husky to the door and closes it behind her. He hears the skittering of claws on the floor as she changes direction into the front hallway and smiles. Considering he has his keys in the pocket of the coat slung over the desk chair next to him, she’ll be searching for a while. Maybe long enough for him to finish taking the photo, and then he can take her for a real walk.

He mutes his chat with Phichit so it won’t distract him, nerves tangling in his gut. He eyes his unmade bed with distaste, then casts a sweeping glance around the room, but nothing stands out to him.

It occurs to him as he’s pulling his arm from his shirt sleeve that Phichit didn’t specifically request a nude photo. But it only seems fair—an equivalent exchange.

With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Seung-gil decides on the bed as his best option. He pulls the sheets and blankets taut over the mattress, then carries his desk lamp over to the bedside table. He plays with the lighting angles for a while, unsatisfied with everything he tries. Ultimately he replaces the lamp on the desk, surprised when the distance turns out to create the best effect, and pushes his track pants down.

Before this moment, if anyone had asked Seung-gil how many people for whom he would photograph himself naked, he would have said, “Zero,” and meant it. Even knowing the extent of his attraction to Phichit, Seung-gil can readily admit to himself that this is a new level for him.

He doesn’t have a tripod, so he uses a trophy to hold his phone. A decent pose requires much more consideration, and a few terrible attempts. When he has a shot that doesn’t make him grimace—lying on his stomach and staring at the wall above his desk with his head turned—he pulls up Phichit’s chat and sends it.

Only once it’s uploading—the progress circle filling at a sluggish pace unusual for his wireless connection—does he notice Phichit’s long chain of messages, increasingly frantic.

The most recent just reads: [I’m so sorry!] and the ones before that confirm that Phichit’s completely misread Seung-gil’s reaction. He winces a little; he’s trying to get better at telling Phichit exactly what’s going on his head for exactly this reason.

When Seung-gil’s photo finishes uploading to the app with a _pop_ , “Read” appears simultaneously beneath it.

Claws rake the door, accompanied by a dismal whine.

Phichit’s response is prompt.

[THAT’S WHAT YOU WERE DOING?????]

Seung-gil smiles and hides his mouth reflexively behind his forearm.

The commentary doesn’t stop there, to his combined amusement and pleasure.

[MY BOYFRIEND IS GORGEOUS AND I AM SO PROUD OF YOU WHAT DID I DESERVE THIS]

That Seung-gil can answer easily. [Sent one first.]

[Wow, what a trade!]

Seung-gil’s smile is wide enough to actually make his face sore. [It’s not terrible? I felt weird.]

[IT. IS NOT. TERRIBLE. How dare you speak about my boyfriend like that!]

Seung-gil lets out a huff. [Sorry.] Then, because he’s feeling bold, he adds a smiling emoticon.

Phichit sends back a row of red exclamation marks. [You’re so cute, I can’t. If all it took to get you to send a photo like THAT was sending one first, do I just have to send you something dirty to kickstart sexting?]

Seung-gil writes back, [Yes,] with wide eyes. That’s an _option?_ Has it always been?

Phichit sends copious ellipses. Then, [Don’t kid about that, Lee Seung-gil. I’m a delicate twenty-two-year-old boy. Joking like that could kill me.]

Seung-gil swallows. [I wasn’t joking. I haven’t ever done it before so I’ll probably sound ridiculous, but…] If it means reading what _Phichit_ sends, he’d do far more embarrassing things.

[I need a moment. Several moments. You’ve created a problem already.]

Problem? What—

Phichit sends an eggplant emoji and a laughing emoji.

Seung-gil’s mind remains blank for a prolonged moment, then he understands.

[Really? Just writing about sexting?]

[Well, no. It was more the photo.] He emphasizes his situation with a drooling emoji. [I don’t think you know how I feel about your body, peach boy. (*´꒳`*)]

That’s…definitely true. (Peach?)

Absently, Seung-gil thinks back to the night in this very room when Phichit stared at him with clouded disbelief and stark urgency in his eyes, as if he’d fantasized about Seung-gil’s body the way Seung-gil has fantasized about him for years.

Seung-gil’s so absorbed in the memory he isn’t prepared for Phichit’s next message. [It probably isn’t a good idea to send photos of what we’re doing, as a ground rule. Until we figure out a safe way to send them. I’m not thinking clear enough to deal with that right now so………. Describing is good enough for now, for me. Okay with you?]

[Yes. Okay. How do we start?]

[Um...one more thing.]

[?]

[I’ve only done this once before and it was half-joking around because I think we were both sort of nervous about being too serious. But I want to try to take it seriously this time. Because it’s you.]

Understanding all the layers in there is an insurmountable goal, at least for now. But at least those last three words can probably be taken at face value, and it sends something hot through Seung-gil’s body to know that Phichit feels even a little like what they have is more important than what he’s had before with others.

[Okay,] he writes. Then, because he thinks Phichit took a risk in saying that, he adds, [If you feel uncomfortable we can stop at any time.]

Phichit sends him a heart. [Thanks.]

Sunja howls from the living room, definitely sulking, and Seung-gil makes an absent mental note to take her jogging after he’s done…what? Jerking off while he holds his phone in his free hand?

It sounded sexier in the abstract, he thinks. He’s not very good at typing one-handed….

[Okay, I’ll start,] Phichit writes.

Seung-gil shivers.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

[I think about you in the shower. At first it was just one of several places, but I’ve been trying to limit it to the shower since I got back to Thailand because it was getting a little…out of control.]

Blood rushes loud in Seung-gil’s ears. Is this what sexting is usually like?

[I come so hard thinking about what we did in your apartment.]

Seung-gil swallows so quickly he almost chokes. While waiting for the next message (there’ll be another, right?), he turns onto his back and presses up against the wall, legs splayed open on his bed. He runs his free hand down his hardening dick, remembering the noises Phichit made against his mouth.

[I still can’t believe that was your first time. You knew exactly where to touch me, how to kiss me.]

Phichit kneeling on his bed, staring at him with heat. The sight of his bare chest, rising and falling faster than usual. The feel of Phichit’s hard nipple under the wet pad of his thumb…

[Seung-gil…?]

He writes, [Yes?] and mistypes it twice before he can send it.

[Are you hard?]

[Yes.]

[Me too.]

Seung-gil groans and drops his phone somewhere on the bed. He wraps his hand around his dick and pumps, his free hand knotted in the sheet beside him. His mind is on the taste of Phichit in his mouth, his cum rushing over his tongue—the way Phichit trembled as he straddled Seung-gil’s hips and grinded his clothed erection against Seung-gil’s—Phichit’s whispered, “You can touch me wherever you want.”

Seung-gil comes in thick streaks over his chest with a gasp, his body taut and shuddering.

He lies there panting, his hand on his softening dick, and transitions to more precious memories. Phichit’s forehead pressed to his as they fell asleep—Phichit’s arms curling tight around him when he got home from practice—Phichit’s bright, inclusive laughter.

When he picks his phone up, Phichit’s written only, [I miss you, I want you so much,] and Seung-gil shivers.

[Soon,] he writes back.

•

As much as he wants to live in his memories, there’s a situation spilling out of control that needs managing.

It’s mid-December, Min-so is no longer his coach, and he has to break the news to his team.

•

His main choreographer, Tabitha Song, has always been a puzzle to him. She’s a Canadian-Korean ice dancer, long since retired and hates all music created after 1700. She wasn’t on board with Seung-gil’s samba number last season and she doesn’t seem to be on board with his decision to let Min-so go either.

“Lee Seung-gil, have you lost your mind?”

He suspects this is going to be a common question over the next couple of months.

“It was time,” he says. Then, before she can launch the counterattack he knows is coming, he clarifies, “It was time last year. I was late in severing ties, and my season suffered for it.”

Tabitha is a small, slim nightmare of a person, quicksilver with emotion and deadly with perception. She worked with Nikiforov extensively before he took on the challenge of being his own choreographer, and now with the likes of Ji-na and Ji Guang Hong. She’s capable at her job but trying to talk to her off the ice is like taking a slog through hip-deep sludge in speed-skating blades.

“You severed ties with your coach of fifteen years two months out from your first Olympics,” Tabitha tells him, unblinking.

He knows this, and she clearly does, so he says nothing.

They’re seated in a café not far from Seung-gil’s apartment building, and at least one girl in here has been staring at him since they walked in. She probably doesn’t know who he is—she doesn’t have that sort of air to her whenever he catches her staring—but the sensation of being watched isn’t enjoyable for him.

He wonders why he’s getting such a cold reception from Tabitha, considering he paid for her drink. Then again, he’s never been especially clear on the value that gratitude carries. Sometimes acts of kindness inspire people to rein in their negative personal feelings out of obligation, and sometimes it just angers them. Tabitha is especially volatile, and never reacts the same way twice to any given stimulus.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she decides. Her mouth is a thin, unhappy line.

He decides he’s had more than enough of this and says, “I’ll write to you when we need to meet next.”

“How exciting,” she says, then sips her cup of caramel coffee and shakes her head as she stares out the window.

He leaves her there without wasting words on anything further, rankling with annoyance.

There’s one more person on his list today.

•

Seung-gil’s dance instructor insists on being called “Joelë” by everyone he works with; he’s famous for it. Seung-gil calls him “J”.

It’s also generally understood within the industry that Joelë’s sixteen years in California made him a little pedantic. He’s forty-seven now, based in a grotesquely expensive studio space in Seoul, and works exclusively with clients who 1) can afford his ostentatious prices, and 2) have “a name in lights” (a quotation from his latest interview). He only wears his own brand, and he’s even trademarked the names of the only five colors that dye his clothes (Seung-gil doesn’t know all of the names offhand because he forced himself to forget them all—only “powder neon” remains lodged in his memory). If Joelë were twenty years younger, he’d probably be in Hae-il’s inner circle.

Based on Joelë’s image and online presence, Seung-gil originally assumed he would be a ridiculous sort of person, the exact flavor of entertainer Seung-gil has grown to loathe. When Min-so recommended him last winter as a potential dance instructor, Seung-gil stared at her with utter, blank horror.

It turns out he’s only half as terrible as Seung-gil expected, and he’s getting more tolerable with time.

Joelë teaches Seung-gil for ninety minutes twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. He’s been instrumental in developing Seung-gil’s Olympic program, and he isn’t surprised at all that Seung-gil’s fired Min-so.

“You feel good about it,” Joelë tells him, nodding. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Seung-gil doesn’t tell him that the only person who has actually proved capable of reading him by his eyes is Phichit.

He isn’t wrong, after all.

Joelë taps Seung-gil on the hip. “Stretch these out. We’re doing a lot of leg work today.”

Seung-gil frowns. That’s all? He actually planned for a longer talk with Joelë—something whimsical about loyalty and being stronger facing adventures together.

Joelë surprises him with a smile. “You’re not stupid, Seung-gil. You already know it’s a risky idea, and you already told me last year that you weren’t happy with the direction your skating had taken.”

He did? Ah…he did. Maybe not in those words—he remembers it being more of a monosyllabic conversation on his end while Joelë asked prying, leading questions. But he did admit that he rarely felt connected to his music when he skated.

“So, let’s move on.” Joelë claps his hands and turns Seung-gil toward the mirror by the shoulders. “You’re starting a new branch of your career today. You’ve taken a left-hand turn into the unknown, and you’ve got to be prepared for anything. Are you ready?”

Seung-gil blinks at him. What kind of family made this person?

“Yeah.”

“I'm not hearing the voice of an Olympic champion,” Joelë says with a raised eyebrow.

Seung-gil suppresses a grimace. “I’m ready,” he says.

Joelë claps him on the back between the shoulder blades. “We’ll get you there. Now, on the floor and stretch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, folks! :D/
> 
> This time, I’m working off an outline and I’ll know pretty soon exactly how many chapters it’s going to be. So I’ll hold the same game I did in Feathers: guess the number of chapters and I’ll write you a ficlet of your choice! Only one guess, only in this chapter. Good luck! ;Dv


	3. December 23, 2017

To Seung-gil’s displeasure, he finds Tabitha’s doubts dogging his heels like an ill vapor as he walks into his home rink a week later for his first official day of practice by himself. He’s gone through his programs every day with Joële and Tabitha, skating early in the morning before the rink opens, and trained at the gym to cool down in the afternoons. They aren’t his coaches, though, and he’s already taken more time from them than he should.

It’s time to face the decision he’s made and start training on his own the way he wanted.

He can hear the slap and slice of steel on ice from the lobby as he makes his way toward the locker rooms, his heart wedged thick in his throat, pumping sour tendrils of anxiety through his body. He can hear the familiar clack of a ruined landing and Ji-na laughs, full and loud and carefree.

He shucks his bag onto the floor by his usual locker with more force than necessary. His stomach is pinched and queasy as he pulls off his jacket.

Min-so has the rink booked until 14:30, and then it’s his until 17:30, when the speed skaters will arrive to take over. He usually stretches by the rink, but the thought of going out there and facing questions and whatever good-natured teasing his former rinkmates have stored up for him is well above what he thinks he can handle right now.

There are advantages to being South Korea’s sole Olympic figure skating competitor, but the only one he cares about now is that the skating union is trying to keep his…detachment from Min-so under wraps for as long as possible. It isn’t for his sake, he knows, but he doesn’t follow the politics closely enough to guess at their real motivations. He only knows that he’s received multiple contacts—emails and voicemails alike—assuring him that the president of the union himself is keeping a close eye on what the press publishes about Seung-gil, and that’s all that matters to him right now.

It quells somewhat the unease that builds when he reads his manager’s emails reminding him about his media obligations. Nadica, his only sponsor, normally only tags him twice a year for a commercial or some web thing that he then links to on his Twitter (Phichit has gradually retweeted all of these ads and refuses to believe that Seung-gil has only done six). But with the Olympics looming, they’ve asked him to do quite a bit more, including photo shoots—his least favorite obligation and something he only agreed to because his manager phrased it in such a way that he didn’t realize that “shoot” meant “photo” and not “commercial”. Eun-ae appears to be losing patience with him as a client and is resorting to underhanded tactics to make him into the media darling she somehow thought she was getting when she agreed to work with him.

He’s held his complaints about the increase in exposure thus far because he knows Eun-ae has also been turning down requests from new sponsors who are gagging to have a potential Olympic champion as the endorsing face of their products. The least he can offer Eun-ae is his silence and—grudging—compliance. It’s because of her that he’s been able to enter his twenties and not rely much on his inherited wealth.

Seung-gil puts as much of that out of his mind as he can and finds a corner of the locker room where he can put himself to work on his stretches.

•

Earlier in the morning, Phichit asked when things with Min-so began to disintegrate. He’s been bolder in his questions about her recently, ever since Seung-gil told him at the GPF that he’d fired her. Phichit seems to sense that as much as Seung-gil doesn’t like talking about his problems with his coach, he isn’t as guarded with Phichit as he was before.

It’s because he trusts Phichit not to tell him he’s doing irreversible damage to his career, even if that’s what he’s thinking.

Still, when Phichit asked for specifics, Seung-gil couldn’t find an answer to give him. Min-so has been a consistent coach, her methods clear and her instructions precisely delivered. By sixteen, he could predict the corrections she’d give him, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to give him another few tries to fix his approach on his own before she’d step in and physically demonstrate for him what he was doing wrong.

She’s always been exactly what he needed in a coach. Direct, strong, and more tenacious than he is. Able to see in him what he’s capable of and how to push him there.

“I don’t remember,” he told Phichit, frowning down at the black bed sheets tangled around his pale bare calves. He doesn’t know how to explain it in English, that one day he realized things had already been bad between them for a long, long time, and he needed to get out.

As he approaches the empty rink, he sees her over on the side talking with Jung-oh’s aunt and older cousin, the latter offering his shoulder to Jung-oh as he slides on his skate guards. All four of them glance over at the first touch of Seung-gil’s skates on the well-shucked ice surface, and look away just as casually, as if they’d found the rink empty.

Seung-gil knows they’re just being polite. There wasn’t an ounce of animosity in any of their faces, he thinks. Min-so has nothing more to say to him, Jung-oh has always been more bored than spiteful toward him, and Jung-oh’s family have never expressed interest in speaking to Seung-gil any of the times they’ve come to watch Jung-oh practice.

There’s no explaining, then, why all of a sudden Seung-gil can’t swallow without difficulty.

•

“14:48,” Jun-young says, then changes his voice to a bright, truly horrific pitch, “ _Hey there, my beautiful rival~! When you see this, let me know what time you’ll be free tonight, okay?_ ”

Seung-gil tucks himself deeper into whichever twin’s bed he’s in, making sure his face his hidden from view in the plush give of the sweet-scented pillow. Dong-hyun pats gently between his shoulder blades, kneeling ever loyal beside him.

“18:21,” Jun-young continues, “ _Seung-gil~ It’s way after your practice was supposed to end. Are you all right?_ Then at 18:53 he just wrote—“ he takes a deep breath and wails, “ _Sssssseeeeeeunnnnnnnnnnngggggiiiiiillllllll!_ ”

Downstairs, their mother shouts something angry and unintelligible, but Jun-young doesn’t even pause before launching into the next one. “19:40. _I flew to Seoul for you once, Lee Seung-gil, and I’ll do it again!_ ”

“He doesn’t sound like that,” Seung-gil feels compelled to point out, despite his mouth smushed into fabric and four inches of memory foam. He doesn’t know how many more messages Phichit sent or how many Jun-young is going to read before he gets bored, but if this is to go on any longer, Seung-gil will at least put an end to Jun-young’s terrible impersonation.

He wonders with alarm if Phichit would really follow up on that threat to come here. If he does, Celestino will probably have Seung-gil’s skate blades melted to a traffic light.

“Fine, whatever,” Jun-young says, his voice descended back to its usual warm baritone. “20:00. _You’re really worrying me. Please write back?_ ”

Seung-gil’s stomach tugs uncomfortably. He turns onto his side, dislodging Dong-hyun’s hand, and reaches his arm out. “Give me the phone,” he says. He doesn’t want Jun-young seeing any more.

“Those are the highlights,” Jun-young reports, handing it back. “He only sent one more after that.”

Seung-gil checks the screen and holds in a wince at the single plaintive, [Please?] under the torrent of the other unanswered messages.

Jun-young flops onto the bed, splayed over Seung-gil’s knees and making himself comfortable. Dong-hyun shoves his twin’s head gamely, but otherwise allows the assault on what Seung-gil is starting to suspect by the former neatness is _his_ bed. Seung-gil doesn’t object to the treatment, either. As irritating as Jun-young can be when he’s overly theatrical like this, the physical contact isn’t exactly unwanted, and Jun-young’s expression seems genuinely concerned without stretching into cloying.

“Are you spending the night here?” Jun-young asks.

“No,” Seung-gil says. He pulls himself up so his back is pressed against the wall, his legs stretched out and still underneath Jun-young’s back. Dong-hyun extends his own legs over Jun-young’s calves, smiling and gesturing with pleasure at the crisscrossing pattern they’ve made.

“You could,” Jun-young says, ignoring his twin. “You look pissed off.”

Seung-gil doesn’t refute that. He is. Deeply. It’s why he hasn’t answered any of Phichit’s messages—he doesn’t trust himself just yet not to say the wrong thing.

The twins’ room used to be Dae-sung’s. After their parents’ room, it’s the largest in the house, suitable for the eldest and now a decent fit for the twins. Their beds are pressed snug against adjacent walls in the shape of a V, their desks joined together in a thick block in the center of the room. It’s a bizarre layout and the entire family says it’s claustrophobic, but the twins insist that they’re happy with the setup and they throw epic fits whenever their mother tries to sneak in and adjust it for them.

Seung-gil’s bedroom is untouched, exactly as he left it when he moved out last year. Hae-il’s became their mother’s trampoline room.

“I have practice in the morning,” Seung-gil says.

To their credit, neither twin looks directly at his sports bag on the floor less than a meter from the bed. But of course Jun-young says, “You have all your stuff here,” anyway.

Seung-gil tips his head back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. According to their mother, Hae-il used to complain that Seung-gil let the twins get away with things he would roll his eyes at Hae-il for doing. It’s not without merit, Seung-gil supposes, but he can’t explain why it’s different, either. The twins are just less irritating somehow.

For the first time in an hour, Dong-hyun speaks. “You should write back to Phichit.” His voice is melodic and careful.

“Yeah,” Jun-young adds, wagging his eyebrows. “He’s nice. And he _loooves_ you.”

Seung-gil frowns, his throat constricting, then jerks his legs out from under his brother and sends him in a tumbling heap to the floor.

“ _Augh!_ ”

Unsteadily, Seung-gil pushes off the bed with a grunt, phone clenched in his hand, and crosses the room to the door. Dong-hyun is snickering while Jun-young shouts, “ _What did I do?_ ” in a truly confounded tone.

Seung-gil closes the door behind him, not quite loud enough to count as a slam. He can hear the twins’ voices volley back and forth as he makes his way down the hallway, his breath sticking in his chest and only coming to him in shallow bursts. He pauses at the top of the stairs and closes his eyes, breathing out until his lungs are empty, then forcing air in through his nose. He repeats this until he feels calm enough to climb down the stairs, his socked feet almost silent on the carpeted wood.

He has no reason to think Phichit’s feelings for him right now extend much further than very deep friendship. There’s physical attraction, of course, but on what basis could Phichit have had any time to develop more? They’re dating, yes, okay, but they’re not…whatever Jun-young thinks they are. And Seung-gil is _fine_ with that. It’s only to be expected. Sexual attraction is more than he ever thought he’d get, for one thing, and he’s even more thrilled to have Phichit’s attention, if he’s honest with himself.

Love is…not something he wants to think about. Not with Phichit. Not now, at least.

His mother is in the kitchen, sitting on a tall, high-backed chair at the marble island with a plate of orange slices and strawberries. Her eyes are fixed on the flatscreen on the wall, an orange slice on the way into her mouth.

“Hello,” he says over the insipid dialogue that fills the room.

His mother picks up the remote and pauses the episode before swiveling to face him. Her chestnut-dyed curls are wilting from all the humidifiers in the house and her pale cream sweater sleeves are pushed up her dark arms to the elbows, exposing the white fishing hook scar from childhood she usually tries to hide. Her eyes pass over him once, then her mouth tucks into a sympathetic tilt.

“Are the twins giving you trouble?” she asks, sounding doubtful.

“No,” he says. He can’t decide where to put himself, so he stays where he is, arms oddly heavy and weighted by his sides.

She reaches out an arm and wriggles her fingers until he holds up his hand and allows her to lace their fingers.

“Watch this with me,” she says. “You need something to distract you for a while.”

“I have to call someone,” he says, but he walks over to the island anyway.

“You can do that after this,” she decides. As he settles into the other chair beside her, she cups the back of his head and grazes her fingernails just so against his scalp. “Are you going to take tomorrow off? You look like you need it. It’s not good to push yourself, especially not this close to the Olympics. You’ll make yourself sick. Remember Jung-oh last year?”

“I can’t,” he says. He bows his head so she’ll take the hint and remove her hand, but this only earns him a hand on his neck instead. “I’m meeting with J tomorrow.”

“You can tell him—”

“No,” he says, an edge creeping into his voice. “Mother. I can’t. Just…stop. Please.”

Her expression shifts in the way he hates, from open and concerned to utterly shuttered. “Well, all right,” she says. She unpauses her show and shakes her head a little, her focus glassy as she retreats into her own thoughts.

At least when he reaches for a strawberry, she pushes the plate closer to him.

•

While he’s in the bathroom, his mother calls him a taxi to take him back to his apartment. Jun-young hands him his bag from the staircase, his face muted but apologetic, and Seung-gil smacks his bicep as he takes it, which prompts a tiny smile from his younger brother. Dong-hyun shouts, “Call him!” from the top of the stairs.

It isn’t until he’s walked Sunja and sat down to eat dinner at his desk in his bedroom that he pulls out his phone, though, and the surge of guilt returns at double the intensity when he sees the only notification on his lockscreen from someone he cares about.

[Seung-gil, I promise I won’t make you talk about it. I just want to know you’re okay. It’s really hard not to know for sure, so if you’re at all physically able, would you please just at least send a comma or something so I know?]

He unlocks his phone and presses the phone icon of the app before he can rethink it.

Phichit answers on the second ring. “Say something,” Phichit demands, his voice sharp like he’s out of breath.

Seung-gil’s mind goes blank. He lands on, “Phichit?”

That’s enough to settle him, it seems, because Phichit lets loose a burst of air twisted around a sound like a groan. “You’re so bad for my heart,” he complains.

Ice travels down Seung-gil’s neck. “What?”

“I’ve been looking up flights,” Phichit says. “It’s nearly ten o’clock there! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”

“You weren’t,” Seung-gil says, unsure.

“ _I was!_ ” Phichit says. “I know, I know, it’s rude and I’m impulsive and all that—” Seung-gil barely has time to wonder where Phichit’s even heard that, because it’s certainly nothing Seung-gil has said to him or even _thought_ before “—but I was _worried_ , you jerk! I was even checking Twitter every ten minutes in case you’d, like, hit your head on the ice and it was taking time for the South Korean skating union to announce the news.”

The thought of Phichit showing up here completely unannounced because because he was worried sparks a pleasurable thrill in Seung-gil. It loosens his tongue enough that he admits, “I had a bad practice,” without meaning to.

“Are you _physically_ okay?” Phichit asks. He sounds so tightly-strung and even a little angry, so unlike his voice usually sounds when they call each other at night.

“Yes,” Seung-gil says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice like this, quiet and raw.

Phichit picks up on it, clever with people in a way Seung-gil will probably always feel a little in awe of. “What happened?” he asks, more softly.

Seung-gil’s inhale shakes, but he finds the nerve to say, “I couldn’t land anything,” and once he’s said that, he has to clarify, “I didn’t hurt myself. I just fell. I couldn’t land anything. I wouldn’t qualify for an amateur ice show if I skated that way.”

There’s silence on the other end, almost deafening in the absence of Phichit’s voice or breath.

Seung-gil tries to swallow and has to clear his throat before the passageway is open enough to let him.

Finally, Phichit says, “Okay. Two things. Are you listening to me?”

Seung-gil says, “Yes,” and rubs his forearm. It’s cold in his apartment.

“First,” Phichit says, and though his voice is still soft, there’s a distinct lack of warmth in it. Seung-gil startles himself with how quickly he picks up on it. “I know you don’t check your phone often sometimes, and I understand. It's fine most of the time. I promise I’ll try not to be so…needy. But maybe just…considering how far away I am and how sort of…difficult things are for you right now, would you please try to check more than you usually would? I just…maybe that’s not fair of me. But I mean…we’re dating, right?”

When Phichit doesn’t continue, it finally registers for Seung-gil that Phichit hasn’t seen him nodding along the whole time. “We are,” he confirms, enjoying the thrill of being able to say such a thing truthfully. And, because it sounds like it’s necessary, he adds, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Phichit says hastily, and now he sounds remorseful. “I—look, _I’m_ sorry. I…I’m not facing the same things you are, but I’m also a little keyed up, y’know? Um, maybe nervous? Not nervous…excited, but a little intimidated. How would you say that…? Anyway, whatever, it’s just, since I got back and I’m not thinking about y—well, I mean, I _am_ thinking about you, obviously. I spent most of the day thinking about you. But I mean, more…um. This is my first Olympics too, and I’ve been spending more time with the kids at my rink since I got home and they’re all so sweet and one of them sews her own clothes and she actually made one of my costumes from…okay, wait, _ugh_.” His voice is going higher-pitched than usual and Seung-gil blinks straight ahead at his wall.

He doesn’t have the vaguest idea what’s going on on the other end of this phone call, and the fact that Phichit’s voice sounds so strange and anxious drops him even lower.

“What was the second thing?” he asks, quiet.

“Oh,” Phichit sighs, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Um. I just wanted to tell you you’ll be okay. You were probably stuck in your head today.”

Seung-gil tries to quash the disappointment welling in his chest. He already knew that much. He’s been stuck in his head since birth, and even now, it’s a struggle to think around the shroud of miasmatic negativity. Phichit, the only person who truly calms him, is thousands of kilometers away, and facing his own obstacles, and Seung-gil reminds himself that Phichit has done most of the work in their relationship so far. He’s not just Seung-gil’s boyfriend, not some supportive wall to lean on. He’s Seung-gil's competitor, too, and one of the world’s finest figure skaters.

Seung-gil has never had trouble diagnosing his problems, and he's clear on them now: he’s mired in his own head, his passion is a chore, and the boyfriend he can’t believe he has lives and trains in another country.

For the first time since letting Min-so go, Seung-gil wonders if maybe she wasn’t the problem.

After all, he can’t even pinpoint when his problems with her started, can he?

_You severed ties with your coach of fifteen years two months out from your first Olympics._

“Seung-gil?”

He licks his lips and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m here,” he says. “I have to go. I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Wait,” Phichit says, sounding miserable. “I didn’t want to unload all that on you.”

Seung-gil nods, remembering too late again that Phichit can’t see him. “I’ll write to you before I go to bed. Good night.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he hangs up.

A shiver courses through him, the cold prying deep into his skin. He knows that was unnecessarily cruel to do, especially to someone who talks to solve his obstacles, but Seung-gil knows he would have made things worse if he continued the conversation. The probability just wasn’t in his favor, and he decides to trust that he made the right choice.

With the assumption that Phichit is in the middle of writing him a message right now, Seung-gil writes, [Can we try that again in the morning?] and sends it. His guilt pushes him to add a heart.

Phichit’s response takes more time than usual—twenty-two seconds, roughly—but when it arrives, it loosens the cinch on his chest a bit.

[Yes, please.]

Below, there’s a video of Phichit blowing him a kiss, with a shooting star spiraling toward the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seung-gil's side of things is fun. \:D/


	4. December 27-28, 2017

On December 27th, Seung-gil wakes up in darkness at five in the morning. After his jog with Sunja, he takes an hour to shower off the sweat and drink a liquid breakfast, then cycles halfway across the city to his nine o’clock session with his trainer at the gym. He doesn’t leave his phone at home so much as he forgets to bring it with him.

His regular gym is apparently popular with athletes—there’s been one more than one occasion a camera crew has descended on the place and taken up valuable floor space with their equipment. Recently he’s made sure to schedule his trainer for morning sessions, when the odds of running into cameras is lower.

Ji-na is already well into her own session, doing jump squats onto a box by the window. Her thirty-year-old black Scottish trainer barely glances at Seung-gil as he takes a seat on the stretching mat across the room. He’s a little wary of Ji-na’s trainer, if he’s honest—the first time they met, he didn’t log her in his memory as anyone of importance—she’s _Ji-na’s_ trainer, after all, and he can’t think of a single reason he should know the woman as anything but “Ji-na’s trainer”. Thus, he’s made the mistake of introducing himself to her on three separate occasions, and now it seems like she’s considering throwing her name tag at his head whenever he walks in.

Until he remembers her name, he’s not going anywhere near her; she looks like she knows this and approves.

Seung-gil’s trainer, meanwhile, is a fifty-three-year-old former gymnast from Malaysia named Tess who speaks fluent Korean and refuses to tell Seung-gil her real name because “you can’t pronounce it” and “I don’t want to hear you try”.

She earned points from him recently because when he told her about Min-so in a message, she responded with a bland, [Understood. Your stamina has been rocky. Send me the logs from your sleep app.] Ji-na says Tess reminds her of Min-so, but Seung-gil doesn’t see it. Yes, they’re roughly the same age and take their jobs seriously, but beyond that, there isn’t much of a similarity. Besides, Tess has a tendency to—

“Trouble with the boyfriend?”

Seung-gil doesn’t drop out of his plank, but any hope he had of keeping his breathing rhythmic is gone. She laughs, “Sorry,” almost guttural in pitch, and his concentration is ruined. At the three minute mark, he’s straining to hold his core tight and she’s saying, “You’ve got this. Don’t quit. Don’t do it. You’re nearly there,” which she hasn’t needed to do with him in almost a year.

When the timer in her hand chimes, he hits the mat, grimacing at the searing burn pulsing everywhere from his arms to his stomach.

“Sorry,” Tess says again. She sets his water bottle closer to his outstretched hand. “I forgot we haven’t talked about him before.”

Halfway into a long gulp of water, he cranes his neck up to give her a frown, his heart spiking for an entirely new reason. What should he do? Deny it? Admit it?

She studies his face for a moment and then smiles, a wry kind of look he’s seen enough times that he feels apprehensive about the direction this conversation is taking. “Your boyfriend’s coach and I went backpacking together over the holidays,” she tells him.

He intensifies his frown. “What holidays?” he asks, still short of breath.

She rolls her eyes. “Stretch, don’t keep your legs bent like that. Up, up—there you go. I won’t ask about him again.”

And she doesn’t. But the fact that she brought it up at all leaves Seung-gil shaken. Min-so never would have. She wasn’t interested in anything he did off the ice, unless it interfered with his skating. Even then, even when Phichit staying at his apartment was throwing his focus out of whack, she wanted adjustments from him, not information.

He wonders what Tess and Celestino could have talked about, and the extent to which Celestino knows about him and Phichit—but he also doesn’t want to know. He’s having enough trouble managing this relationship with only Phichit involved. There was a time when Seung-gil could count the number of people who knew about his feelings for Phichit on a single finger. When Tae-woo figured it out, he forced himself to be more careful. Now, after years of keeping it buried and protected, his grandmother, his mother, all four of his brothers, Phichit’s parents, Celestino, and an unknown number of the skating community know and the idea that even more people are starting to find out sits wrong in his chest, even after Tess assures him casually that she won’t tell anyone.

Seung-gil feels like he’s suspended midair in a jump he knows he won’t land.

If the rest of the world joins in on this relationship, the two of them won’t have a chance.

He’s slumped on the cold wall of the locker room shower when he remembers how much easier things were when Phichit was actually _physically_ here. He’d gone to such lengths to try and get inside Seung-gil’s mind, to make communicating easier on both of them. Then he’d wrapped himself around Seung-gil, so _many_ times, that sweet smile knowing and welcoming and so, so understanding.

He was warm in every way that mattered.

Seung-gil pinches his nose, breathing in slowly. It isn’t just the companionship he misses either, though he’s a little unnerved by how badly he wants it now whenever he’s alone. Things are _quiet_ without Phichit. But he also wants the smell and softness of Phichit’s hair against his face and the warmth and strength of his arms and legs twined with his at night. He craves intimacy. He’s worked himself sore to the touch over and over fantasizing how things might go between them the next time they’re together.

He wants to make Phichit shiver. He wants to make him moan and whine and scream. He wants Phichit to suck him off again, looking up at him like he did last time, with that earnest focus Seung-gil is so accustomed to seeing when he performs. He wants Phichit to fuck him against the window of some hotel room high above the rest of some city where no one could actually see them but— _maybe_.

He wants to do so much with Phichit. More, he’s sure, than Phichit’s ever thought about doing with him. Every time he watches porn, he measures how much he enjoys it by how easily he can imagine doing the same things with Phichit someday. He’s looked up sex toys again and again and made a very strict category for them in his head called “Phichit Would Never, But…” and as long as he keeps his fantasies to himself, sealed away in that corner of his mind, there’s no harm in it, right? That kind of sex is probably rare outside of porn anyway, the kind with vibrating bullets and nipple clamps and blindfolds.

Seung-gil turns the shower handle all the way to the blue side and hisses as the cold shock stops his body’s dangerous descent into behavior that’ll get him kicked out of his gym. He watches the cold water sluice over his fully thickened erection, taking it down just as the door down the hallway opens and a pair of middle-aged men walk in mid-conversation about a golf trip to Hawaii one of them is scheduled to take.

Seung-gil braces his arm on the wall and drops his forehead onto it. Hae-il’s favorite subject for teasing lately is how much Seung-gil hates his life, and Seung-gil never corrects him. But it’s more that he’s used to ambivalence with pockets of satisfaction scattered along the way, and at this point he doesn’t know what it’d be like to feel anything else.

•

He skates for two hours after that, despite his body giving him red flags that he’s pushing himself too far. He has the rink booked, after all, and there’s no one here to tell him not to.

When he flubs a quad and a sharp pain jolts up his leg, Seung-gil finally takes the hint and cools down doing figures until he feels too nauseous to continue.

•

He picks up his phone for the first time at four o’clock, wrapped around Sunja on his sofa and wishing the sun would set already so he doesn’t have to get up and close his curtains to block out the light. To his surprise, Phichit hasn’t sent him a single message all day.

His heart folds over.

He ignores the other notifications and opens his chat with Phichit. Sure enough, the last message is one he’s already read, timestamped last night at 23:03. It says, [Me too. It’s okay. Talk to you tomorrow! (Any thoughts about the LDR app?)] There’s a long chain of romantic emoji beside it.

App. What app?

Seung-gil scrolls through the entirety of their exchanges over the last three days, studying the tone as best he can. Nothing _seems_ off. Ever since they cleared the air the other morning, things have been fairly normal between them. Seung-gil promised to check his phone at least once a day, and Phichit promised not to fly to Seoul before okaying it with Seung-gil first. He said it with a lighthearted voice, but Seung-gil isn’t entirely sure he was joking.

…He wouldn’t… _entirely_ mind it if he wasn’t.

But Celestino has made it very clear to both of them that he was not okay with Phichit’s actions in fall, so Phichit’s not likely to show up here unannounced unless he’s as eager to get rid of his coach as Seung-gil was.

Then, yesterday morning, at 9:23: [There's something on the LDR app I want to try. Maybe tomorrow after you get home?]

Seung-gil apparently responded, [Sure,] but he flounders in a wash of confusion trying to pin down what he was doing when he wrote that. Breakfast, maybe? He had practice with Tabitha yesterday at nine thirty…maybe he dashed off a note to Phichit beforehand without really absorbing what he was responding to? The next five messages are all Phichit’s, totally unrelated, and then Seung-gil wrote back at 20:00 to say, [Too tired to talk much. Going to sleep early.]

LDR…LD…oh. English. Long Distance…That. Right.

He closes out of their messages and opens the bright green app he actually forgot he’d downloaded in Nagoya with Phichit a warm weight on top of his chest. There’s a notification already waiting for him in a black box decorated with swirling pastel lines. Below it are two buttons: Accept or Decline.

Seung-gil presses Accept with some trepidation.

The entire screen changes to black, then an array of color swatches fill the bottom of the screen. Twelve or so, maybe. A painting game? He drags his finger over the screen and watches a soft turquoise thread follow in its wake. When he lifts his finger, the whole length of it slowly fades.

His phone gives a quick vibrate, and then a mild orange thread appears and dashes across the screen. It spells Seung-gil’s name in Hangul, and Seung-gil smiles reflexively.

With deliberate strokes, he writes Phichit’s name in Thai script. Phichit responds with a heart, and when his thread overlaps with the fading remnants of Seung-gil’s turquoise scrawl, Seung-gil’s phone buzzes in his hand.

Phichit draws a winking face, then “get it?” in Hangul.

Huffing a breath of amusement, Seung-gil draws a line slowly through the face. His phone buzzes at all three points of contact.

Phichit draws a row of 5s on top of it all, laughing with apparent delight. Seung-gil’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing for a good ten seconds, and under his arm, Sunja makes a low noise of curiosity, one eye wide open.

Seung-gil woke up at five, but somehow it feels like his day only just started now.

•

That night, when Seung-gil calls, Phichit’s end of the line is loud.

“Sorry!” he shouts, laughing. “My aunts are holding a party for my cousin! He got a new job and uh, my family uses any excuse to celebrate. Can I call you later?”

Seung-gil says, “Sure,” and hangs up.

He studies his room, dredging up a list of potential activities to fill another hour or so. Everything is clean. He’s not hungry. Television can’t hold his interest lately. Sunja already had her walk. He could take another bath, maybe.

He only makes it as far as the bathroom, then changes his mind. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and tucks himself into his bed, bunching his legs up to lessen the odds of kicking Sunja in his sleep.

He considers jerking off, but even that seems like it would be a chore.

When he’s on the verge of falling asleep, he remembers that Phichit asked if he could call later and rockets back to consciousness. He retrieves his uncharged phone from his desk—4% battery remaining—but Phichit hasn’t called. Seung-gil leaves his phone on the table beside his bed, plugged into a charger. He leaves the sound on, just in case.

According to the app that measures his sleep quality, it takes him an hour longer than usual to fall asleep, and he wakes up multiple times throughout the night without realizing it. His “sleep quality” percentage for the night is 53%, and that somehow makes all that time feel even more wasted.

He tries not to wonder why Phichit didn’t call back.

•

Tabitha says, “Stop,” and she sounds so much like Min-so that Seung-gil has a reflexive moment of anger. It’s gone in a flash, replaced with a general air of annoyance. Tabitha doesn’t usually meet with him on Thursdays, but she showed up at the rink shortly after he started practice and she hasn’t given any indication yet that she’s got somewhere else to be.

He doesn’t know if he wants her to.

He skates over to the edge where she’s leaning on the wall, arms folded.

“Listen,” she says. “I’m not your coach.”

Seung-gil says nothing. He doesn’t even try to stop her, even though he can already guess he’s not going to like the rest of what comes out of her mouth.

“I had a chance to become one, back when I first retired. I probably would have been one of the stricter coaches in the industry, too—more ‘Feltsman’ than ‘Leroy’, if you understand me.”

Seung-gil doesn’t recognize the second name, but decides not to say so. He knows Yakov’s style of coaching well from his research into Viktor Nikiforov’s career, enough to understand which extreme end of the spectrum he’s supposed to represent here.

He reaches his right arm to the left in an idle stretch, pressing his bicep close to his chest. His muscles are going to tighten if she takes much longer with this…speech.

“Before you made this choice,” she says, eyes boring into him, “did you read up on any other skaters who’ve done what you did? Or speak to any?”

He nods. “Diana Jacobs, 2002. She fired her coach in October and went on to win silver.” She isn’t the most ironclad example he could have gone with—Jacobs was seventeen and her parents fired her coach for “excessive stress and tactics involving emotional manipulation”. He knows of at least two others he could have named, but they didn’t reach the podium.

Tabitha rubs her temple, laughing without humor. “Diana, right. Did you also read that Diana’s mother—a former medalist herself—took over coaching? Or any of the controversy behind the judges and the Jacobs family?” Before he can respond, she says, “Or maybe you read about Nadia Dvorak from 1996? Alexander López in 1980? Or did you leave them out because they didn’t medal?” She pauses, significantly, then adds softly, “This doesn’t happen often for a reason, Seung-gil.”

He drops his gaze to the ice, his chest tight.

“Your form is lacking,” she says. “Everything you do is either too stiff or too loose. You’re pushing yourself, I know. I _see_ that you are, but it means nothing if you don’t know what direction you have to steer yourself in. I don’t like telling you this, I really don’t, but you just did that program for me twice and I can tell you honestly that you wouldn’t have made the GPF with either one.”

The silence that follows is sharp, somehow. Everything from his boots to the shaved slices in the ice is extra bright around the edges.

“Seung-gil. I know you weren’t happy with Min-so’s style of coaching—”

“I’m done for today,” he decides, then swallows hard when he feels something hot climbing up his throat.

She tries to keep talking, but he can’t think of anything else to say to her, so he leaves.

She lets him.

•

When he arrives at the gym, desperate to burn off restless energy, one of the televisions over the treadmills is showing his official headshot.

At the bottom, the headline: _Figure skater Lee Seung-gil fired coach just before GPF_.

He walks out again, halfway through the desk clerk’s request for his member’s card.

•

There are four messages from Phichit waiting for him when he gets home and checks his phone where he forgot it on the bathroom counter. They aren’t what he was expecting, though, or hoping for. They’re just a bunch of links. To Twitter.

The first is a tweet from Guang Hong, a bright, [I have to stop watching this skate!!] with a gif from Seung-gil’s GPF short program.

Seung-gil stares at it, then rereads it. Why is Guang Hong watching his program?

The next link takes him to a Filipino skater he’s never heard of who claims the skaters he wants most to see compete at the Olympics are Yuuri, Viktor, Emil, JJ, and Seung-gil.

The third is a massive thread from Leo, who’s written a response to a fan’s question but in practice it looks more like his autobiography. Seung-gil is mentioned twenty-one tweets in, where Leo waxes poetic about seeing Seung-gil’s senior debut free skate program in person and deciding he admired Seung-gil’s step sequence more than any other skater’s.

The last is a tweet from Phichit himself, timestamped around noon, and at first Seung-gil isn’t sure what to think about it. He isn’t explicitly mentioned in it like he is in the others. All the tweet says is, [Big plans this evening! Who wants to guess what they are?]

Curious, Seung-gil scrolls down. He doesn’t know. He didn’t get to talk to Phichit last night about today’s schedule.

The first response—with two hundred likes and sixty-seven retweets—is: [Seeing your boyfriend Lee Seung-gil?]

Seung-gil sucks in a breath, but Phichit’s response right below it makes him freeze. [O M G. You’re all really persistent about that, huh?]

He didn’t deny it. Does he _never_ deny it? The thought fills Seung-gil simultaneously with two very different but equally fragile emotions, neither of which he understands.

He closes out of Twitter altogether and notices that the counters signifying new messages on various apps have noticeably risen in number. He ignores all of them. They’re probably mostly related to the news and he can’t do anything to change or quell it now.

He thinks of calling Phichit, but the most recent of Phichit’s messages is timestamped several hours ago. He might be at practice, or training, or with one of his friends or someone in his family. Another party, maybe, or perhaps he’s just relaxing on his sofa, taking photos of his hamsters asleep on his stomach.

Seung-gil turns his phone over in his hand so he can’t see the screen, then tries to take a deep breath. It takes three or four focused attempts before his lungs properly expand, and his exhale is slow and measured.

To say that he isn’t expecting the doorbell is like saying he isn’t expecting the floor to melt. He gives real thought to ignoring it, but whoever is at the doorbell seems to sense that urge and rings the thing another four times in rapid succession.

…Phichit?

He’s halfway across the room before he’s fully aware of moving, a shallow inhale lodged in his throat, and he opens the door so quickly he almost hits his own foot with it.

Hae-il lurches back, eyes wide. “Shit, I’m sorry!” he half-laughs. “Do you have a frying pan lid?”

Seung-gil closes his eyes as he lets out a sharp breath.

“Hey,” Hae-il says, and his tone is so abruptly changed that Seung-gil finds himself opening his eyes without meaning to. His brother’s face is a sketch of concern, every feature almost awkward in placement. “You don’t look so great.”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says, pinched. “What do you want?”

“I said it already,” Hae-il says with a chuckle. “I’ve got someone upstairs. We’re having dinner.”

Seung-gil wishes he’d just repeat whatever he wa—oh. “Why don’t _you_ have a lid?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Because I got a new frying pan online and it didn’t come with one,” Hae-il says. He shifts his weight to his right hip and folds his arms. Sure enough, he’s in date clothes: skin-tight everything from his black cashmere sweater to his tailored white pants. The filmy orange and purple ombre scarf around his neck, however, seems like a step perilously close to the realm of trying too hard, which is surprising on someone who treats life as effortlessly as Hae-il does.

“Mom gave you extra pans, right? C’mon, help a brother out.” Hae-il says the last bit in English with the worst American accent Seung-gil’s heard since Guang Hong tried to imitate some YouTuber everyone seems to hate.

“You’re embarrassing,” Seung-gil says, stubbornly still in Korean. “And your lust for the US is even more embarrassing.”

Hae-il smirks like he’s succeeded in something and follows Seung-gil into the apartment. It only takes Seung-gil six seconds to find the pan lid and shove it at Hae-il’s chest. Hae-il seems almost confused to see it, but he lifts it with a nod of thanks.

Then, with a strange, uncomfortable sigh, Seung-gil’s weirdest brother says, “Listen, have dinner with us.”

Seung-gil’s brows dive so low they almost swallow his eyes. “ _What?_ ”

Hae-il makes a dramatic face as if _Seung-gil_ is the one being feverishly unusual. “Mom and Grandma said you’re being hermit-like again and Mom thinks you’re depressed and she keeps giving me shit about not doing anything about it just because we live in the same building.” He throws his hands up as if he expects Seung-gil to agree with the insanity of it.

And Seung-gil intends to. So why does he say, “Fine”?

Hae-il tilts his head. “ _Pardon?_ ” he says in English.

Seung-gil feels the temperature in his face rise. “Don’t invite people if you’re not being sincere,” he says. “Never mind.”

“No,” Hae-il says, almost blank with surprise. “You can, I guess. Just, uh. Huh. Okay.” Before Seung-gil can insist that _never mind_ was his final answer, Hae-il grabs him by the sleeve and says, “You know Yo-han, right?”

The front door has shut behind them before Seung-gil realizes Hae-il’s talking about his latest movie’s costar, Song Yo-han. And considering what Hae-il was yammering about when Seung-gil opened the door—

“Wait,” he says, pulling out of Hae-il’s grip. The elevator button is already pressed, though, and the car arrives in the middle of Seung-gil whispering, “You’re inviting me to your _date?_ With another _actor?_ ”

Hae-il laughs and drags him into the car. Seung-gil resists, gripping onto his phone tighter and amazed to find that he’s still holding it. “Yeah, I didn’t really think it through,” Hae-il muses. “Oh, and you’re locked out of your apartment now anyway. I’ll give you the spare key after dessert.”

The doors close on Seung-gil’s outraged noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Author Is Mean to the Ones She Loves, starring Lee Seung-gil. ♡


	5. December 28, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes reptilian content that might be uncomfortable for some people. If applicable to you, please check the notes at the end!

Yo-han is only two years older than Hae-il, but he’s about sixteen years older in terms of how long they’ve both been famous. Yo-han is a child star, and his celebrity persona is that of a gentleman, soft-spoken and eloquent. He sponsors products like high-end watches and convertibles. He’s frequently named one of the most distinguished celebrities in the country, and there’s a skating judge from Busan who regularly compares Nikiforov to him.

Where he’s seated at Hae-il’s kitchen island, however, he’s just flesh. Warmer and quicker to smile and far more intelligent than Seung-gil would have expected.

Yo-han is, simply put, everything Hae-il doesn’t deserve in a romantic partner, and Seung-gil makes sure to say it the moment that thought is grammatically sound in his mind.

It’s received with a smile, and Yo-han’s voice is almost syrupy with fondness when he says, “I know.”

Hae-il pretends he didn’t hear and hands Seung-gil a wine glass. “I’m going to take a photo and send it to our mother,” he tells Yo-han, “as proof that I’m being a responsible older sibling.” While Seung-gil is distracted contemplating the presence of the wine glass when there’s no actual wine bottle in sight, Hae-il pulls out his smartphone and aims it at the three of them. Seung-gil scowls, but he’s pretty sure Hae-il got the shot before he finished the expression. Seconds later, the _whoosh_ sound effect on Hae-il’s phone announces that the photo has been sent off into the world.

Then Hae-il pours orange juice into the three wine glasses.

In response to Yo-han’s curious noise, Hae-il says, “I’m not getting drunk with my little brother here.”

“Good,” Seung-gil says. He knows what kind of drunk Hae-il is; he's the kind that drives cars into pools and searches out the nearest pretty face tongue-first.

What surprises him is that Yo-han also says, “Good,” at the same time.

Seung-gil likes Yo-han. It’s unusual that a man like him can’t find better company for the evening than Hae-il.

After a minute of silence, it’s clear even to Seung-gil that the two of them had barely started their date. There’s no unfinished conversation to pick up, and Hae-il is visibly struggling to understand why he dragged Seung-gil up here.

Yo-han sips at his orange juice.

Hae-il circles the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

Yo-han sends Hae-il a wry, half-hidden-behind-his-glass smile.

The silence stretches with no obvious escape route in sight. Seung-gil, usually at home in silences, doesn’t like this one. It’s heavier, for one thing, and he supposes he’s expected to be an active participant, since the three of them are sitting in a triangle. Equal responsibility for each of them.

For the rest of his life, Seung-gil will remember this moment as one of the more baffling, because without consulting himself or even thinking about what he’s doing, Seung-gil voluntarily starts a group discussion about something that isn’t skating.

“What’s your movie about?”

It’s Phichit’s fault, Seung-gil thinks, and the tide of warmth that coasts over him at the thought of Phichit having such a massive influence on him is so distracting he doesn’t hear Yo-han answer his question. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Hae-il laughs and corrects something about it, and that launches the two of them into a spirited back-and-forth that Seung-gil knows can survive without his involvement.

He sips his orange juice and reflects on Phichit instead.

He’s the one smooth surface left in Seung-gil’s world, and given how small a world it is, and how rocky most of it has become, Phichit might just be even more necessary now than he already was. He might really be the only person in the world right now who _isn’t_ demanding something impossible from him. All Phichit seems to want is to have more time together, and…well. Spending that time a certain way.

“Yeah, he’s in deep,” Hae-il says, and the rise in volume seems to indicate he’s trying to get Seung-gil’s attention.

Seung-gil lifts his eyes from the surface of the island and finds both Hae-il and Yo-han watching him with nearly identical expressions of amusement. Seung-gil drops his gaze again. Finding his wine glass empty, he starts swiping pulp off the insides with his thumb, then licking them off his skin.

“You’re completely disgusting,” Hae-il says.

“I could leave,” Seung-gil tells him. “Where’s my spare key?”

“Fine, fine, fair enough. It’s in the—”

Yo-han interrupts, “You must be sick of hearing about the Olympics,” as if he hasn’t heard a word from either of them over the last thirty seconds. He swirls his orange juice in his glass as if it’s a priceless dollop of wine, smiling in a way Seung-gil can only describe as nonplussed.

Seung-gil tries to work out the reason he’s asking and comes up blank. “Yes,” he says. But once the answer’s given, he decides he’s wrong. He…

…Doesn’t care anymore. He never really did, maybe. No matter how far back he casts into his memory, competing in the Olympics was always Min-so’s goal. But…at some point, the hours upon hours of training meant _something_ …they still _mean_ something, don’t they? But the few interviews he’s seen regarding the Olympics—from Katsuki with his quiet ferocity to Plisetsky with his _loud_ ferocity to Phichit struggling to speak clearly through delighted tears—they all tell him that he’s lacking some key part of himself. Somehow, the fire from his former coach and the hope and longing of an entire country can’t wake whatever’s gone dormant inside him.

He’s moving forward without reaching for anything in particular.

“How do you like your chances for the gold?” Yo-han asks. He’s tilting his head, and there’s nothing in his demeanor that suggests he’s asking out of malice or some ulterior desire. He sounds like he just…wants to hear an answer to his question.

Seung-gil repeats, “How do I like my chances.” Not the bland _what do you think your chances are_ , the question he’s been asked a hundred times by journalists across the globe. “I don’t…” _know_ …? Is that it? “I don’t…” _care_ …? He can’t admit that aloud, can he?

“Hey,” Hae-il says. In one swift move, he’s snagged Seung-gil’s phone. “What’s your password?”

Seung-gil stares at him, moving not a single muscle to take it back. He’s not telling and Hae-il will never guess—

“Got it.”

Seung-gil makes a rude sound in the back of his throat and jumps half out of his stool before the urge to do it has finished registering in his mind. Hae-il holds him back easily with a hand on Seung-gil’s forehead.

Yo-han is laughing silently behind his hand, elbow resting casually on the counter.

There’s only enough time for a moment of panic when Seung-gil sees the telltale change of screen to FaceTime, and Phichit’s name—brazenly, in Thai script—appears above the damning text: “calling”.

“Give. Me. _The phone!_ ”

“Sorry, I’m on the phone, could you lower your voice?”

“Don’t—! Stop it! Hang up!”

He feels the breath leech out of him when the ringing stops and the ceiling of Phichit’s bedroom appears on the screen. Seung-gil hopes for a wild half-second that the phone answered itself, and Phichit’s either asleep or in the shower.

Then Hae-il crows, “Phichit!” and a familiar smiling face pops into view, upside-down from their perspective.

“Hae-il!” Phichit cheers. He sounds genuinely delighted. “Sorry! I’m doing yoga.” The camera’s view blurs and swivels, and then Phichit’s centered in the screen. He’s wearing a skintight black T-shirt with some abstract holographic pattern emblazoned on the front, and his hair is tugged back into a tiny ponytail. Seung-gil’s mouth gradually goes dry. Was Phichit’s hair that long in Nagoya just a few weeks ago? …Has it really already been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other…?

As Seung-gil fixates on a bead of sweat tracking down Phichit’s temple, Hae-il says, “Your boyfriend’s here.”

Seung-gil wants to object to all of this, but he can’t come up with the words fast enough. Hae-il is already turning Seung-gil’s own phone on him and when Seung-gil sees his own face in the tiny box at the bottom of the screen, he winces—he doesn’t look great.

Phichit’s abrupt shift in expression implies that he’s noticed, too. “Hey,” he says, soft. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get back to you. It’s been kind of busy here.” His smile is tentative, almost as if he expects Seung-gil to be angry with him.

Seung-gil can’t think of anything worthwhile to say while his brother and his brother’s…colleague—are grinning at him. He goes with, “It’s fine,” even though he knows it’s not the right thing to say.

Phichit’s smile fades a little.

Hae-il turns the camera toward Yo-han and says, “This is my current costar, Song Yo-han.”

Yo-han offers a wave and a thickly-accented, “Good evening,” that makes Hae-il’s playful smile turn unusually affectionate.

Phichit’s voice says, “Hello! Ah! I know you, too! Don’t you do YouTube comedy videos with your snake?”

There’s a beat of total, blank confusion—Seung-gil stares at Yo-han, Hae-il stares at the back of Seung-gil’s phone—and then Yo-han grins and says, “Ohh, yes. That is me. You watch?”

“No, sorry! I’m, uh, not a fan of snakes. But the idea is cool!”

Hae-il snaps the phone around and says tersely, “Phichit, I’m giving the phone to your boyfriend. I have questions for this man.” Without ceremony, he tosses the phone in Seung-gil’s general direction. Before Seung-gil’s even caught it, Hae-il says to Yo-han, “Fucking explain, please?” in very emphatic English.

“In English is okay?”

“Don’t be a smartass. _You have a fucking snake?_ ”

“Hmm. You very like ‘fuck’.”

“Stop speaking English and explain the snake!”

Phichit’s laughing, very loudly. It’s the only part of this situation Seung-gil is enjoying. Yo-han starts an explanation in Korean, but Seung-gil doesn’t much care what it is, and he’s a little wary of Hae-il deciding to steal his phone again, so he stands up from the island and retreats into Hae-il’s living room.

“Your family is great,” Phichit says. He rubs a knuckle under his lashes, sighing with amusement. “Your brother’s dating him?”

Seung-gil frowns. “Yeah. I think. This is a date. How did you know?”

Phichit winks. “Twitter,” he says. “I made a new account to follow Hae-il and some of his fans. They’ve been speculating that your brother’s dating someone on the set of his movie. I thought it might be Ji-young, but she doesn’t seem like his type. Too bubbly. Plus, well. They’re acting sort of couple-ish.”

Seung-gil opens his mouth to deliver the extreme doubt he’s feeling when Hae-il shouts, “You keep that in your _pocket?_ ” then shrieks, “ _Get away!_ ” and finally makes an appearance in the living room as he bolts through it with Yo-han following him at a brisk jog, beaming and holding up what Seung-gil thinks is a piece of snake skin.

Phichit’s laughter brings Seung-gil’s focus back to the phone just as the bathroom door slams shut and locks. Yo-han calls, “It’s okay, I put it away!” and Hae-il shouts, “Bullshit, you fucking liar!” in English, with laughter thick in his voice.

“Why are you part of their date?” Phichit asks, grinning. “Was it your idea?”

Seung-gil gives that the answer it deserves.

Phichit’s expression warms further, even in the face of Seung-gil’s most sardonic look.

While the noise continues behind him, Seung-gil takes a seat on the edge of Hae-il’s sofa. There are innumerable better places to have a conversation with Phichit, but he doesn’t have the luxury of choosing at the moment.

“I was kidnapped,” he says.

Phichit hums, wholly unsympathetic, then says, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“He hasn’t even fed me yet.”

“Wow. It’s a shame you can’t divorce your siblings.”

“I agree with you,” Seung-gil says. Within earshot, the bathroom door pops open somehow and Hae-il howls with laughter. Seung-gil sighs. “I agree with you a lot.”

He expects Phichit to fill the next gap, but for once, Phichit seems closed inside his own head. His eyes are following a meandering path around the room behind Seung-gil, and Seung-gil says, “His decorating style is more…chaos than mine.”

The corner of Phichit’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah,” he says, “I was there for a little bit. He really is nice, y’know. He likes you more than he lets on.”

“His bicycle is on the wall,” Seung-gil says, flat. He turns the phone to show Phichit the wildly expensive racing bicycle Hae-il has repeatedly lied to journalists about riding in the countryside three times a week. It’s never even touched the asphalt outside their building, as far as Seung-gil knows.

Phichit grins. “You’re going to run out of reasons to dislike him someday, and then you’ll look back on your younger self with pity.”

Seung-gil snorts. He pushes his foot against the leg of the unevenly-placed coffee table until it’s neatly parallel with the line of the sofa. “There are many reasons left,” he says, making sure his voice sounds ominous.

Sure enough, it makes Phichit laugh, and the sound of it makes a tiny curl of warmth light up deep inside him. It’s reminiscent of…some other feeling. It’s like…

A spike of pain bursts at the back of his head, and Seung-gil hisses in shock as cold, jagged metal slides down his back. Down the hallway, Hae-il calls, “Stop intruding on my date, troll!”

Seung-gil fishes his spare keys out from his shirt and shows them to Phichit as evidence. “Many, many reasons,” he says.

•

He talks to Phichit for an hour and a half after that in his own apartment. They build up gradually to an exchange that’s nearly equal in balance. Seung-gil reminds himself twice to ask Phichit about something beyond his training—his yoga, first, and then later about his aunt’s party—and both times, Phichit smiles like he knows Seung-gil’s taking deliberate steps outside his comfort zone.

“You look a little better,” Phichit says, toward the end. He’s mounted his phone on his bathroom mirror while he brushes his teeth and washes his face. Seung-gil’s already done and lying in bed with Sunja a snoring weight on his thighs. Every time he strokes her flank, she makes a theatrical whine of complaint in her sleep. It’s been amusing both him and Phichit for the last several minutes.

Seung-gil checks the tiny window at the bottom of the screen, but he still looks terrible by his own estimation. His skin isn’t usually that color, and the rims of his eyes are suspiciously reddened, even though he hasn’t been crying at all.

When he glances up at Phichit, he finds an odd expression on his face.

“What?”

Phichit smiles downward as he rubs balm over his lips. Seung-gil tracks his finger’s path. “Nothing,” Phichit says. “Well. I have an idea. But I should…um. Before I—” He cuts off a tiny huff of a laugh, then raises his eyes to the area on his phone just below the camera, where Seung-gil’s image must be. “Okay. So. Yuuri and I talked about this place in Japan, way up north, that he wants to visit with Viktor after the Olympics is over.”

Seung-gil nods.

“And,” Phichit continues, with an unreasonable degree of nerves, “it gave me an idea.” He slaps off the bathroom light and retrieves his phone from the mount, carrying it at face-height as he winds through his apartment toward his bedroom. Even though Seung-gil’s never been there, he’s seen so much of Phichit’s apartment through these calls that he has what he thinks is a fairly accurate floor plan memorized. He could probably draw it, if he wanted to.

“What’s your idea?” Seung-gil asks.

If Phichit suggests traveling to that place with them, he’s not sure what he’ll say. Going anywhere together with the world’s most romantically linked pair of people isn’t going to do much to shield his relationship with Phichit from even more rampant speculation.

And that…it isn’t fair to Phichit. He knows it. He also knows that if he doesn’t work out this tangle in his personality, Phichit’s going to lose patience with all this secrecy when he could have some confident showman like Nikiforov, a man so shamelessly proud of his partner, he has a thousand and ten ways to bring Katsuki up in interviews that by all logic should have no connection whatsoever to him. Phichit deserves that. He knows that, too.

“Well,” Phichit says, and suddenly he’s sprawled in bed. His phone has been placed on the selfie stick, and the selfie stick propped in a mount on the floor. It’s a recent contraption he’s figured out—he posted it to all his social media accounts, he was so pleased with himself. It gives Phichit the luxury of folding his hands behind his head while remaining perfectly framed by the camera.

“Ciao Ciao’s in the States right now,” Phichit says. “So…for New Year’s…I was thinking, y’know. Since it’s New Year’s, and I—I usually spend it with my family, and I’m sure yours will want to—”

Seung-gil connects the pieces. “You want to go to Japan for New Year’s together.”

Phichit exhales, but he doesn’t look at all relieved. He’s still tense, still hesitant. “I want to clear it with my team first, and my family, because I think they’ll be a little…um…” He wrinkles his nose, probably searching for the right word. “Well. But…yeah. I do.” It shows on his face when his mind changes track, his eyes widening right before he hurries to say, “It’s really far north! I already found the place on AirBnB that Yuuri was talking about! And it’s—I can send you the photos. It’s really, really isolated, and it’s the entire place to ourselves! No one’ll—”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says. “I want to. With you.”

There’s a charged moment on Phichit’s side that Seung-gil doesn’t understand. A moment of suspended animation where Seung-gil wonders, wildly, if he somehow said the wrong thing. Or all of the wrong things.

Then, Phichit’s face changes. Opens, maybe? He’s not smiling, but how he looks right now gives Seung-gil that same curl of warmth his laughter evoked.

“Okay,” Phichit says, quietly. “I’ll clear things on my end and we’ll…start planning it, then?”

Seung-gil says, “Okay. Yes.”

“Okay. Okay.”

It isn’t until Seung-gil’s closed his eyes and exhaled a shallow breath into his pillow that he realizes Hae-il was able to unlock his phone because he knew Seung-gil’s final score at the GPF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning (the actual one): If you've a fear of snakes, and you want to avoid snake content, skip the paragraph starting with: "Seung-gil opens his mouth to deliver the extreme doubt he’s feeling" and pick up again at: “Why are you part of their date?” It's a silly, lighthearted bit, but phobias are phobias and I'd rather take the chance of mentioning it. ;)


	6. December 29, 2017 (morning)

Seung-gil’s phone sees more of the outside world on Friday than it has in recent memory. It accompanies Seung-gil on his run with Sunja, jangling in the loose pocket of his track pants. The air is cold enough that it scrapes against the inside of his nose when he breathes, and his lips are chapped, split, and bleeding by the time he returns to the front door of his building. While he chews at a loose flap of skin around the split, the doorman offers him a polite nod and the man behind the lobby desk calls out an unnecessary greeting.

He checks his phone in the elevator, but there’s nothing of note in his notifications. He tries not to feel too discouraged by it—it’s barely three thirty in Bangkok, after all. Sunja leans on his leg and offers up a dollop of her slobber on his sneaker. He pets her neck with a soft, “Gross.”

He rinses off in the shower while Sunja noisily devours her breakfast in the kitchen. He’ll need to wash both of her bowls later—it’s been a few days and there’s visible residue building up. He hasn’t run a vacuum through his apartment in a few weeks, either. Tufts of dog hair are stuck in the cushions, to say nothing of the crumbs in the kitchen from her sloppy eating, and his own stray black hairs on the bathroom floor. While the thought is in his mind, he guides some of those errant hairs into the corner behind the door with his foot.

He’s out the door again by six thirty, but he stops dead in the lobby when he remembers his phone still sitting on the bathroom counter. Going back to get it only takes two minutes, but Sunja misunderstands entirely and is twice as miserable when he leaves without her for a second time.

Some of the newer notifications manage to hold his interest for a few seconds at a time as he makes his way to the gym. Joelë’s apologetically asking to meet thirty minutes later than usual this afternoon, Hae-il’s sent a facetious message thanking him for visiting last night, followed immediately by a friend request from someone he doesn’t recognize—an event unusual enough that he assumes Hae-il gave Yo-han his information, and Tess letting him know which studio to meet him in when he arrives at the gym. He skips every single message that mentions Min-so’s name, and scowls outright when he sees the [URGENT] preceding every one of his manager’s seven emails.

There are others, too—requests for interviews by journalists on Twitter, alerts from his running app and his nutrition app and his sleep app and reminders for today’s schedule, and the usual emails from family members he hasn’t seen since he was seven years old or younger—but by twenty-two, he’s become practiced in the art of delegating the requests to someone else on his team, swiping through the alerts, and deleting all the attempts at invasive emails. There’s been an unsurprising surge of them ever since his Olympic candidacy was released to the press. It rises substantially more each week. By February he may have to hire someone to handle his emails, too.

He’s already felt tempted for months to hire someone to run his Twitter account, just to surprise Phichit with the increase in activity and see how long it takes him to figure out that it’s not Seung-gil updating multiple times a day.

He’s firmly in what he’d consider a “neutral” mood when he walks into the gym. He hands his member card to the woman in expensive yoga clothes at the desk, and buys a protein bar from the box next to the register on a whim. He consumes half of it as he crosses the floor to Studio B, where Tess is spreading out the equipment she has planned for today. Ladder on the floor, a hula hoop against the mirror, and a box by the wall.

At the sound of him setting his bag down on the floor, she says, “Morning!” in a tone that lives between professional and cheerful. She glances up from the floor where she’s straightening the ropes of the ladder, then widens her eyes for a moment. “Well, don’t you look downright merry.”

Seung-gil stares back at her, uncomprehending. “Merry” is a far cry from “neutral”—is she being sarcastic?

She laughs and climbs to her feet, one palm heavy on her right knee. “Never mind,” she says, waving a hand. “Stretch and warm up and then we’ll get started.”

It takes less time than usual, to shake the tension out of his shoulders and back. He carries his stress there more than most people do, according to Joelë, and it makes him hunch when he’s not paying attention. This morning, it feels easier to stand tall and limber up to Tess’s satisfaction. She’s outright smiling by the time he’s finished his last set with the resistance bands.

“What?” he asks her, unnerved.

She tilts her head to the side, studying him like he’s a shade of paint she can’t recall the name of. “What happened?” she replies. “You really do seem different.”

He glances at the ladder on the floor. He’s done this exercise with her before—if he just started, would she drop this?

But she grins and says, “Ahh, it’s about the thing we don’t talk about, isn’t it?”

He sighs, folding his arms. Nothing he says about his privacy at this point will be heard, let alone respected. His best bet is to wait until she’s bored of his silence.

“What did he do?”

He turns his gaze pointedly away. Her patience is short; it won’t take long before she gives up. Then he remembers, all too sharply, that he’ll need to tell her about his absence over the three days he’s planning to go to Japan. A flight from Seoul to Sapporo takes a little over two and a half hours, so he might be able to fit in a session with her if—

“I’m going to Sapporo. Japan. On December 31st,” he tells her.

She doesn’t seem to register what he’s told her for a long, uncomfortable moment. He didn’t mean to blurt it out, but just saying it aloud to another person aside from Phichit makes that fragile tendril of warmth deep inside him flare larger with life.

“You’re going to Japan on…this Sunday? In two days?”

He nods, puzzled by her tone. His mother takes day trips to Osaka to shop with her friends all the time, leaving on a morning flight and returning on an evening flight. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear she goes twice a month. Sapporo’s a little farther away, but three days—alone with Phichit, no less—is much more time off than he’s allowed himself in…ever? Maybe ever.

Besides, he’s twenty-two. There’s no reason for her to sound quite so…parental. Katsuki moved overseas to _the U.S._ at eighteen. Seung-gil can take a short vacation to the country next door for what’s essentially a long weekend, can’t he?

Where he finds himself mired in confusion, she seems stuck in surprise.

“With the b—with your—with him?”

He doesn’t move a muscle. Why is his relationship with Phichit always so difficult to deny? Even the thought of saying _no_ makes his throat seize up. As much as he dreads the idea of more people knowing and therefore feeling free to comment on the fragile connection he’s managed to make with a person so far outside his usual realm it’s almost comedic, it feels very much like betrayal to try and…keep him a secret.

After a long, complicated pause, she turns her eyes toward the ceiling and sighs. “How long are you staying?” she asks. “And why _Sapporo?_ It’s not cold enough for you here?”

He decides her first question is based in professional interest, so he only answers that one with a terse, “Three days.”

Tess huffs out a familiar breath of laughter, the one usually accompanied by—yes, there it is—her shaking her head. “Okay then. Just update our online calendar after our session today. I have a stacked day today and I might forget.”

“I will.”

He’s a little surprised she didn’t put up more of a fight. In fact, no one really seems to be challenging him on his choices recently. It should be a relief, shouldn’t it? To make choices for himself without constant opposition? Without doubt and criticism?

Maybe Tess is just learning not to put a foot into his personal life.

It takes thirty minutes for his breathing and heart rate to climb noticeably, and even Tess’s odd smiles and comments can’t distract him from taking full advantage of his swift and sudden return to peak physical performance.

•

It’s on his way to the rink—walking, rather than jogging, so he can read Phichit’s Twitter feed—that Seung-gil realizes he’s never taken a vacation before without a member of his family present. He can’t even remember the last vacation he took; every stamp in his current passport is connected in some way to skating.

A smile tugs at his mouth as he puts his mind two days ahead. A secluded trip to Sapporo with Phichit will be Seung-gil’s first truly _adult_ holiday. He ducks his head to hide whatever face he’s making from passersby. If only he could write a letter to his dejected younger self. _You’re not wasting your energy,_ he’d say, maybe. _He’ll be more to you someday than you’ve ever dared to imagine._

He’s tugging the door to the locker room open when a flurry of notifications arrive from Phichit. His volume is on, so he treats Jung-oh and four other guys he doesn’t recognize to a cacophony of his default alert tone.

“Wow,” says one of them, “I didn’t realize you were so popular.”

Jung-oh, without looking away from the sink where he’s washing his hands, flicks his hand over his shoulder and splashes the guy in the face with a clean slice of droplets. “Have some respect,” he says. “He’s five years older than you.”

The guy rolls his eyes, gives Seung-gil a sarcastic bob of his head, and then yanks off his shirt.

The other three guys pretend not to have heard any of this and pick up an inane conversation Seung-gil wants no part in. Jung-oh doesn’t spare him so much as a look, either.

Seung-gil drops onto the unoccupied bench near his locker and turns so his leg is propped on the seat and the back of his phone is facing the rest of the room. He doesn’t need one of these people leaking his personal life to the tabloids. Of course, he could _wait_ to read Phichit’s messages, but—

He opens the chat, then silences his phone.

Phichit’s latest barrage isn’t made up of text, but images. Twelve of them, in fact, of the exterior and interior of a very modern-looking house. Seung-gil’s imagination, without his consent, jumps to a very wild conclusion before he seizes hold of it and stifles it. _Sapporo_ , he thinks, firmly. _This is the house he wants to stay in. Obviously. No one moves in together after a month of dating, you idiot. Not when they’re keeping things discreet, at least._

It isn’t even the kind of house he’d choose, anyway, if that were the direction this were going in. It has a sloped roof, for one thing, angled sharp to discourage the accumulation of snow for which Hokkaido is notorious. He’d want something…warmer. Not so many sharp edges. The wood of the Sapporo house is very dark, except for some white beams that seem only to be there for accenting purposes. The place seems small, but based on the photos, there appear to be three full-sized bedrooms inside, each made up with precision and decoration sense. There are a number of considerate details that he notices—brand new shovels in the entryway, written instructions in English on the wall explaining how to operate the heated floor, emergency kit in plain sight in the corner of the room on top of a pile of blankets, presumably for the kotatsu.

It’s a good place to spend a three-day vacation in a place with a great deal of snow.

Two of the guys shout their farewells as they head for the door, shoving each other off course every few steps and laughing uproariously the whole way.

Jung-oh doesn’t respond. Neither does Seung-gil.

Min-so will probably need time to wrap up with the younger ones before the rink is open for him.

He opens the first photo of the house’s exterior again, and allows his imagination to alter what he doesn’t like. If he and…if he and Phichit did…do…someday—live together…

Maybe…it wouldn’t be somewhere quite so far north. It’d have a gym. And there, they could train together in the morning. Then—…then what?

Breakfast? Maybe. Phichit cooks, a little. Seung-gil could show him some of his grandmother’s best recipes. They could make some of them together, and Phichit would take photos, putting each dish in ever more ridiculous places in order to get the best lighting, and—

Jung-oh is watching him.

At the best of times, Jung-oh is as unreadable as Seung-gil, but now his face has a furious sort of animation to it. His eyes track every slight shift of Seung-gil’s body, disdain pouring off him in an invisible torrent. Seung-gil stares back over the top of his phone, a chill rising from his chest and curling around his neck.

The loud one who dared speak to Seung-gil as if he were a nothing junior skater claps Jung-oh on the shoulder and says, “Nice practice, buddy.”

_Buddy?_

Jung-oh says, “Mm,” and turns his attention back to filling his sports bag.

The _buddy_ guy glances at Seung-gil and offers another vague head twitch. The hostility in his eyes is…odd.

Seung-gil brushes it off and brings his attention back to where it’s needed. There’s a message from Phichit under all the photos. He’s written, [ _Which bedroom do you want to use?_ ] above a truly lascivious animated rabbit in fishnet tights and a pink boa. It’s blowing him a kiss.

He sends back his best deadpan stamp, and almost smiles when it earns him a row of laughing 5’s. They commence a war of stamps, which Seung-gil is sure Phichit is going to win, but just seeing the stamps Phichit comes up with is amusing enough to make it worthwhile. Once Phichit’s won, he could probably open up Twitter and read a few Rain-no comics while he’s waiting for Jung-oh to leave—

“Is it true you’re not looking for a coach?”

Seung-gil frowns up at him. There should be another unidentified skater in the locker room, according to the count he’s kept in his head, but the fourth guy appears to have left while Seung-gil was preoccupied with answering Phichit. The lockers are all shut, and only Jung-oh’s bag remains, zipped and ready to be carried away. Except that its owner is staring at Seung-gil from a comfortable distance, arms folded loosely over his stomach.

Seung-gil tries in vain to remember the last time he and Jung-oh exchanged full sentences.

He decides, “What?” is all that that question deserves.

Jung-oh’s eyebrows (Phichit might whisper, _formidable eyebrows_ , if he were here) descend with displeasure. “You and Ji-na are the only singles skaters we have representing our country this year,” he says. When he closes his mouth, the muscle in his jaw stiffens and a divot puckers his cheek. “You not taking this seriously reflects poorly on Coach Min-so, on our club, and on our country.”

Seung-gil’s mind goes bright, uncomprehending, and then it sinks in all at once.

The implications are at once staggeringly simple and too much to process.

Jung-oh must see the moment it impacts, because his scowl intensifies. “You don’t keep up with the news, I know,” he continues, “so let me tell you what’s been going on.” Tension makes way for genuine aggression to build in the air between them. “Every few hours, there’s a new journalist trying to figure out why you fired her, and every ‘story’ is worse than the last. They keep replaying the ugliest parts of every skate you’ve ever done, all the way back to your first time in front of a camera when you were like, eight years old, and they blame it all on her. They blame your _personality_ on her. They keep showing the same photo of you when you were five, smiling, and then the asshole anchors ask, ‘Did this brutal, merciless coach drive all the joy out of her best skater? Has Park Min-so destroyed one of South Korea’s most promising athletes?’”

When Seung-gil cants his gaze away, he sees that Phichit’s sent him a flood of stamps, perhaps misinterpreting Seung-gil’s silence as encouraging him to win by a margin so wide that it’ll amuse them both.

He turns his phone over.

What can he say to Jung-oh to make him leave?

“It’s none of their business why I fired her,” he murmurs.

Jung-oh actually rolls his eyes, and Seung-gil only has a moment to appreciate how different this person before him is from the Jung-oh he grew up near. “Your brother is an actor,” Jung-oh says, “and you don’t know how the media operate? They don’t care how you feel, or what’s ‘their business’ or isn’t. If they can’t get answers from you, they’re going to wage a smear campaign against her. Either way, they get attention, and that’s all they’re after.”

So what is Jung-oh suggesting he do, exactly? Acquiesce to interviews? Sit down with some fool journalist and explain what he himself can’t figure out? Every answer would be, “I don’t know,” or, “No comment,” or some other utterly useless jumble of words. Would that be sufficient to take the media’s eye off Min-so? Probably not, if it’s true what Jung-oh is saying. If they’re choosing to portray Min-so as a monster, submitting to interviews would only be giving them more fodder by putting all of his worst flaws up for closer scrutiny.

Jung-oh senses he’s not going to get a response from Seung-gil and huffs a disgusted breath through his nose. “Why are you such a dick?” he asks. He sounds almost plaintive now, and the sudden shift is almost more unnerving than what he’s saying. When did Jung-oh become _expressive?_

“No, I’m actually asking you.”

With effort, Seung-gil meets Jung-oh’s eyes, all at once so tired and fed up with people trying to pry into his mind and invade his life, and he’s horrified to feel his nose twitch like he might _cry_. Why? Because Min-so is taking criticism for her coaching? Because Jung-oh, once so much like him, gets pats on the shoulder now and called _buddy_ by their—his _former_ rinkmates? Because it isn’t the first time someone’s called him a dick and he still doesn’t know how to be better?

The last one feels rawest.

But…

Phichit likes him.

He’s sure of that, and he clings to it.

Phichit flew to Seoul for him. Phichit stroked his face and locked eyes with him, patient and understanding and affectionate. Phichit’s parents like him too, maybe. Phichit’s father complimented his programs, told him his costumes were “dazzling” (Phichit had to translate, which he did with great delight and enthusiasm). Phichit’s mother even asked to follow Seung-gil on Instagram, and only when Phichit reminded her that they’re keeping things quiet did she nod and grin at Seung-gil and put her finger to her lips. Phichit’s friend, the tennis player, she might like him, too. They talked about dogs.

He’s not a dick. Not…entirely?

Seung-gil pulls his bottom lip under his teeth, accidentally grazing over the split from earlier, and tastes iron. “I don’t need you to like me,” he says, managing to keep his voice even. “I also don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation for my career choices.”

Jung-oh nods, looking simultaneously unsurprised and irritated. “Yeah,” he says. “Fine.” He picks up his bag and ducks under the strap with an awkwardness that seems excessive to Seung-gil from someone usually so coordinated. Is Jung-oh really that angry with him?

Their conversation is finished. Finality is thick in the air between them, so Seung-gil lifts his phone to escape into mindlessly perusing the stamps Phichit sent him. It seems Phichit bought the stamps based on the rainbow comic Seung-gil likes. It almost makes him smile, but—

A sharp _twang_ —metal meeting metal—snags his attention, and Seung-gil snaps his eyes back up in time to see Jung-oh catch himself with one hand splayed on the locker bank. The clasp of his bag slams against the locker again, producing the same noise, and Seung-gil stares as Jung-oh hisses through his nose and slowly straightens up.

It’s only when Jung-oh resumes his wobbling steps toward the door that Seung-gil notices the suspicious lump underneath the fabric around Jung-oh’s knee.

_…the only singles skaters we have representing our country…_

Jung-oh opens the door with more force than necessary and hobbles through the doorway to loud shouts of, “Take your time, man!” and, “Whoa, be careful!”

The silence he’s left in his wake is stale, and Seung-gil’s breath stagnates and shallows to match.

Acting on impulse, and with a head full of fuzz and noise, he sends Phichit a terse message.

[What time should we meet in Sapporo?]


	7. December 29, 2017 (evening)

Ostensibly, Joelë’s role in Seung-gil’s life is to assist Tabitha with Seung-gil’s choreography and to implement new styles of dance into Seung-gil’s repertoire. His speciality is more in modern styles—though he claims to have some mental block against tap—and recently, to Seung-gil’s perpetual exasperation, Joelë’s been trying to promote pole-dancing.

The first time Joelë suggested it to him, Seung-gil said, “I can’t see how spinning mostly naked on a rotating pole applies to figure skating,” in what’s maybe his chilliest tone.

Joelë responded in predictable fashion, folding his arms and pushing his hip out and glaring with all the ferocity that helped make him famous (in the dancing world, at least). “I expect,” he said, solemnly, “that you will speak respectfully of all forms of dance when you’re in my studio, Lee Seung-gil.”

As if summoned, a memory of Joelë’s swing dancing tutorial on YouTube sprang to Seung-gil’s mind and he forced himself not to grimace.

“Pole-dancing strengthens your core, and—well, to be honest, I just want to push you out of your comfort zone a little. You’re tense enough to support a building.”

Seung-gil turned down pole-dancing that first time, and he’s turned down every one of Joelë’s successive offers with equal fervor. Not just because pole-dancing seems like another one of Joelë’s strategies to shake Seung-gil of his reserve and trick him into being more emotive on the ice, but also because he suspects Joelë is basing this strategy on Katsuki Yuuri’s infamous banquet spectacle. He doesn’t want any part of his athletic process modeled on a night of what he’s heard was debauchery and utter silliness.

To Seung-gil’s relief, Joelë seems to sense he’s not in the mood for it today and sticks to a fairly normal routine. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he speaks little beyond pointing out when Seung-gil’s losing energy or becoming complacent with the precise movements of his arms and legs.

It’s over more quickly than Seung-gil expected it would, and while he’s stretching on the floor, Joelë says, “What are you doing after this?”

Seung-gil doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s focused on breathing and calming his heart rate. In two days, he’ll be in Sapporo. Less than two, now. He and Phichit agreed to arrive at New Chitose Airport on the morning of the 31st, which means Phichit’ll be flying out tomorrow night, and Seung-gil the morning after, on the 31st itself. His direct flight should only take a couple of hours, and Dae-sung’s already agreed to take care of Sunja.

Now that Joelë’s lesson is finished, he should head home so he and Phichit can buy their plane tickets online together.

But he hears himself say, “No plans,” as if it’s a reflex. …Because it is, he supposes.

Joelë squeezes his shoulder, smiling, and then releases him. “Then I’ll treat you to dinner, how about?”

Seung-gil intends to turn him down, really he does, but somehow he winds up going with Joelë to a restaurant high above the city facing the Han River. Joelë is a difficult person to refuse—there’s some bewitchment on his voice or his eyes that makes saying “no” to him nigh on unthinkable. It might also be, Seung-gil thinks, that Joelë is one of the few people in his orbit who isn’t repeatedly describing for him all the ways he’s handling his career poorly.

Still, guilt pulls at him as they’re led by a seating host wearing plum-dyed gloves to a plush corner booth, so Seung-gil dashes off a quick apology to Phichit.

[My dance teacher kidnapped me for dinner. Sorry.]

Immediately, as expected: ‘Read’. Then, with Phichit’s usual promptness, [You’re getting kidnapped a lot lately. Should I be worried about you?]

Seung-gil sends him back a stamp of a hamster with a question mark over its head. [It’s only happened twice.]

[Well, I’m next.]

Seung-gil manages to tamp down his smile just as he slides into the booth facing Joelë. His teacher calls the seating host by name and thanks the man for the great table location, which gets him a fond laugh.

Only when they’re left to their own devices does Joelë smile at him and say, “I’m what they’d call a regular. This is my usual table.”

Seung-gil nods, uninterested in his teacher’s dynamics with the restaurant staff and barely trying to hide it. He skims the menu, doing estimations in his head of each item’s cooking time as well as how long each one will take to consume. He has no power over what Joelë chooses, of course, but at the very least Seung-gil can guarantee that he’ll be finished and ready for the check in the shortest possible amount of time.

He chooses a soup that sounds simple and, once he confirms that Joelë is going about his decision at a much more leisurely pace, he unlocks his phone screen under the table and opens Phichit’s chat.

[You are,] he writes back.

‘Read’. Phichit sends a heart stamp, then, [Can I admit something kind of ridiculous?]

Seung-gil checks on Joelë again, but his teacher is still immersed in the menu, humming to himself and running his thumb and pointer finger over the invisible shape of a nonexistent goatee on his chin.

[Yes.]

Phichit’s response arrives instantaneously, as if Phichit already had it prepared and just pasted it into the message window. [The whole reason I want to go to the place I picked is because there’s a pond near the house. Also, the house isn’t actually in Sapporo—we’re gonna have to take a few trains to get there. It’s REALLY out of the way. But I mapped it out and I think we can get there in a few hours. We’ll just have to be REALLY careful with time on the way back to the airport.]

Seung-gil writes, [Okay. Why does the pond matter?]

Phichit sends a sheepish-looking hamster stamp and then, shortly afterward, another block of text appears. [I remember what you told me in Seoul. I know you want to love what you do, and I KNOW you did once. I remember you in juniors—there are videos online still and you look…not happy, really, but. Invested, I guess? I don’t think you LOOK happy when you’re happy, sometimes, though, so. I want to help, and I thought going to a place where we can just kind of…play around on the ice together? No programs, no drills, just fun. I thought that’d be good for you. That’s why I want to go there. You didn’t ask, but I wanted you to know why I picked there.]

“Seung-gil?”

With a shiver, Seung-gil realizes he’s smiling. A genuine, honest smile, so quick to take to his lips he didn’t notice it until he took his eyes off his phone screen.

Joelë’s head is tilted to one side, and the waiter standing beside their table is politely blank, simply waiting with no notebook or anything in his hands for Seung-gil’s order.

Seung-gil’s smile fades with the return to reality, and he murmurs a selection without registering what it is. A dull roar rises inside his head.

He pockets his phone as Joelë changes his posture.

“Tess wrote to me,” he says.

Seung-gil exhales hard through his nose, every atom in him urging him to flee.

Joelë offers him a sympathetic smile, but the look in his eyes seems distracted. “We’re worried about you,” he says.

Seung-gil says, “Please don’t waste your time.” _It isn’t what I’m paying you for,_ he doesn’t add. After all the help and patience Joelë’s offered over the last year, it seems ungracious to remind him that emotion isn’t part of the contract Joelë had him sign when they agreed to work together.

“Here’s the thing,” Joelë says, as if Seung-gil didn’t speak. He steeples his fingers on the table, and by all outward appearances he seems wise, the way he brands himself to his clients and his followers on social media and his YouTube subscribers. If it weren’t for the wariness in his voice, he would be every bit the enlightened guru who just happens to funnel his spirituality through dance. “I know you feel cornered right now. I’ve been hearing from concerned members of the team recently that you’re having a lot of trouble handling training on your own. And you know I’m more than happy to help where I can, but coaching really isn’t my job.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“And you need a coach.”

Seung-gil discovers to his horror that the room is coming unfocused. He squeezes his eyes shut and quickly drops his gaze to the surface of the table. He finds the flame of the candle in the center and stares at it until it becomes a blurry orange smudge.

“I just want to skate,” Seung-gil says. His voice is holding, at least. “I don’t care if I medal. I don’t care. I…I don’t need a coach. I don’t care. I don’t _care_.”

It’s the first time he’s admitted that last part aloud to someone on his team, but he’s not sure Joelë will truly understand what he’s saying.

“Okay,” Joelë says, in an even more cautious tone. “Let me ask you this, then. What do you want from skating, Seung-gil?”

He winces as a tear wets his cheek and hastily shoves his face against his shoulder to smear it away. “I don’t want anything from it,” he says, so desperate to make _someone_ understand that he’s not even sure he means what he’s saying. “I just want to do it.” And that must be it, right? Simplicity is fundamental. Something simple is at the core of every desire.

“But why?” Joelë asks. He sounds a little warmer, for some reason. “You could have chosen a lot of sports. Skiing, running, mountain climbing, speed skating, gymnastics—why did you choose figure skating? What’s at the heart of that choice?”

Seung-gil frowns. “That choice” is so far removed from where he is now, at twenty-two, that it takes him a while to dredge through his childhood memories to the moment he connected to this one sport over all the others he knew he could choose from.

The blades of his skates were older and duller then, when he was five. Rental skates. His mother and grandmother stood at the barrier on the outside of the rink, talking and waving indulgently. One of his older brothers—probably Dae-sung—tailed close behind Seung-gil in case he fell.

Seung-gil kept trying to turn and stare at the ice, intent on the thin grooves and ice shavings he was leaving in his wake. Every time he turned too far, he wobbled, and Dae-sung would rush in to right him. Sometimes, Dae-sung asked, “Do you want to stop?” but Seung-gil told him, “No.”

The first complete circle he made was wholly by accident. Or maybe Dae-sung led him. Either way, Seung-gil’s very first figure on ice was a circle, and the realization that he’d done that, all by himself—even though it was oblong and imperfect (and more of an oval)—sent something bright and proud through his chest.

Seung-gil explains this to Joelë as well as he can. It’s inadequate, he can tell, just based on the half smile lifting Joelë’s mouth.

“I like skating figures,” Seung-gil concludes. “Everything other than that was just…training.”

Joelë nods and takes a long sip from his water glass. He doesn’t seem to have registered the importance of what Seung-gil’s said. Figures have always been calming to him. They make sense—they rely on mathematics, and their quality is easily measured in objective terms. Having that security of certainty is comforting.

Joelë’s eyes move around the restaurant, then stop on the waiter approaching with their appetizer.

“You like precision,” Joelë says. There’s a lift at the end of his sentence, and it sounds like he wants confirmation from Seung-gil.

Seung-gil says, “Yes,” and waits for more. Because there _was_ more to it than that, once. He just can’t…explain in words what it was.

But Joelë seems satisfied with what they’ve established and by the time the appetizer plate has touched the surface of the table, Seung-gil can feel that the air is different. They’re going to stop talking about this particular subject, without really resolving anything. Joelë thanks the waiter and takes a small square of bread topped with…something from the tray.

“Well, all right, then,” he says. “We just have to focus on getting you a coach who understands what you need, then. We don’t have a lot of time, but if you’re not concerned about medals, then we don’t have to concern ourselves with medals, right? Just on what will help you as a skater.”

Seung-gil doesn’t answer. He hides his disappointment, grips his phone tighter, and nods.

•

Neither of them seems inclined toward conversation on the drive to Seung-gil’s apartment building, and Seung-gil makes sure it stays that way. He doesn’t initiate anything, and he responds in monosyllables to Joelë’s sparse questions.

Once he’s checked that all his app’s notifications are switched off, Seung-gil swipes through the photos on the AirBnB listing Phichit sent him. There are only six of them, but each one makes the place seem more and more like an oasis than the last. There’s ice, Phichit said, and they can skate there together—alone—for the first time. They’ll have breakfast together, they’ll sleep together, they’ll have hours of uninterrupted time together. Nothing planned in advance, nothing required of them. Just…time. Empty time, full of potential.

Cycling through the photos makes him feel calmer and calmer until he can switch off his screen and close his eyes and take a deep breath that swells his lungs full.

The medals don’t matter. He never wanted them for himself anyway. When he shuts out the voices around him, that’s the one thing he’s sure of.

Phichit is the only person who seems to understand that. The only person who knows what Seung-gil needs. And even if Seung-gil himself doesn’t know, he’ll have time to figure it out for himself when they’re together.

He just needs three days away from the pit he’s mired in to reboot, shake off, and start fresh.

•

The moment Joelë’s dropped him off at his apartment building with a well-wishing shout of some kind—doesn’t matter what—Seung-gil calls Phichit.

It’s only on the second ring that Seung-gil remembers he’s not just calling to hear his boyfriend’s voice—they also have to book their tickets. He smiles wryly to himself as he climbs the stairs from the curb leading up to the front of the building.

Phichit doesn’t answer until the fifth ring, which is unusual enough that Seung-gil is already frowning when Phichit’s voice fills his ear.

Then Phichit says, “I’m _so_ sorry,” and his wretched tone makes Seung-gil’s heart clench.

Ahead of him, two older women approach the building and greet the doorman with curt nods, so Seung-gil slows his pace to avoid the possibility of eavesdropping. “Why are you sorry?” he asks. What could have happened in the ninety minutes since he last wrote to Phichit? And how do people live like this, perpetually synced with the outside world? Aware of every minute change that happens almost instantaneously, under constant assailment of people’s news and emotions and traumas and—

Phichit’s been quiet for so long that Seung-gil can make out the sounds of a rotating hamster wheel in the background.

“Are you there?” Seung-gil asks, inanely.

“You didn’t read my messages?” Phichit doesn’t sound upset, just tentative and concerned.

“No. I just got to my building. I had my notifications switched off.” He’s careful to keep his side of the conversation bland and unremarkable as he enters the lobby. He’s well within in earshot of the doorman, the desk staff, and the pair of women waiting in silence at the elevator bank.

“Oh,” Phichit says. “Um. Seung-gil…I’m so sorry, I really, really am. I…I can’t go.”

The answering emotion that plummets through Seung-gil’s core is swift and sharp, but Seung-gil still says, “What do you mean?” just in case he’s somehow misinterpreted.

The elevator doors open, and Seung-gil automatically follows the women inside. It isn’t until the doors are closing that he realizes he could have waited for another one. Now he’s stuck with an audience for what promises to be a painful, private conversation.

“I thought I could go,” Phichit says, quiet. “I really did. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure yet when I—I didn’t actually know the results until today but—it’s a TV show here. I was chosen—um, they voted—the audience did—ah, they chose me to be a, a co-host for this countdown show on New Year’s Eve and—”

Seung-gil doesn’t know why Phichit stops talking. He doesn’t know why the women are discreetly staring at him in the mirrored doors of the elevator, either. Not until he sees his reflection and registers that his chest is rapidly rising and falling, and his face is sickly white and patched with red.

“Seung-gil, I’m so sorry,” Phichit says. He sounds awful. His voice is soft and low. “I want to go, so badly. I want to see you.”

“You can’t cancel,” Seung-gil says. By the uncomfortable silence on the other end, it didn’t come out loud enough or intelligible enough for Phichit to understand him.

The doors open, and one of the women leaves.

The one remaining avoids Seung-gil’s eyes in the closing doors’ reflective surfaces.

“What?” Phichit says. He sounds embarrassed to have to ask. “Seung-gil, I’m really—”

Seung-gil’s floor number appears on the display. The doors open just as Phichit says “sorry” again, and Seung-gil rushes out of the car without a backward glance. He’s halfway down the hallway before he trusts his voice enough to say, “So, you’re cancelling.”

There’s a sharp pause, and Seung-gil can almost hear how badly Phichit wants to say “no” but instead he whispers, “Yeah. I have to. I agreed to it weeks ago and I didn’t think I had a chance against the other candidates, so—I should have waited until I knew who they’d pick, but…I didn’t think. I didn’t want to wait too long to ask you, and then I just…I didn’t think they’d pick me, so I—”

The impulse to hang up is strong. It isn’t just to escape this terrible flow of nervous words, either. He’s standing before his front door, struggling to breathe, and he has a sequence of actions to go through now. He has to unlock the door, get past Sunja, and cross the apartment so he can close himself in his bedroom. Only then can he continue this conversation, because he needs privacy and he needs a calm space where he can focus on the fact that he’s losing his last support column because of a stupid television program.

This isn’t going to be a conversation that gets any easier from this point on, he thinks with resignation.

“Seung-gil?”

It also won’t be one where Phichit calls him by playful and creative pet names engineered to embarrass him, apparently.

Seung-gil makes a snap decision and says, “I’m putting the phone in my pocket. I’m not hanging up. Wait.”

He vaguely hears Phichit say, “Okay,” as he brings his phone down to his hip and into his jacket pocket.

The lighting in the hallway of his floor always bothers him. It’s too bright, and too crisp. It exposes flaws, and he thinks that’s by design. To show off. The jade and gold carpet is deep-cleaned three times a week, and the slate gray wallpaper seems as perfectly placed as it was the day it was glued there.

He opens his door and slips inside before Sunja can run too far down the hallway and make closing the door a struggle.

He toes off his shoes and catches Sunja’s front paws as she dives into him, her jewel-bright eyes and wide canine smile gently boosting his mood. Phichit isn’t the only one on his side, he reminds himself. If only Sunja knew the ins and outs of figure skating and spoke a human language.

Conscious of Phichit waiting for him, he bends down and presses a kiss to his roommate’s head. _Sorry,_ he thinks.

She only whines a little when he shuts himself into his bedroom, and he thinks he must be low for his high-maintenance dog to let him off the hook so easily.

Still in his jacket, he sits on his bed and closes his eyes. When he’s had a moment and nothing feels any different, Seung-gil takes out his phone and, on impulse, switches the call to speaker. Then he lies down.

“So,” he says, and hears Phichit’s soft noise to indicate he’s listening, “you can’t cancel your TV show. So you’re canceling on me.”

He means it as a clarification, but his voice sounds raw and bitter.

Of course, Phichit answers the tone instead of the words. “I can’t cancel,” he says. He sounds like he’d rather say almost anything else.

“You say ‘can’t’,” Seung-gil says, “but you mean ‘won’t’.”

“Well,” Phichit says. He takes some time to think before he continues, and Seung-gil hates it. There haven’t been moments like this lately, when Phichit feels like he has to carefully measure his choice of words because he isn’t comfortable being direct. “I really _do_ mean ‘can’t’. I _could_ , but it would mean—”

Seung-gil says, “So this means I won’t see you until Four Continents,” and effectively stops Phichit’s torrent of apologetic but insistent words.

“I-I think so,” Phichit says, sounding small. “I’m really, really—”

“Not sorry,” Seung-gil says. “You are, I know, but stop saying it. Nothing is solved.”

Phichit doesn’t respond. The hamster wheel has also stopped creaking, and Seung-gil wonders with a knot in his throat if Phichit hung up on _him_.

What else is there to say, though? Phichit has obligations. Of course he does. He’s the darling of his home country, a surefire contender for the podium, and he actually _wants_ it; not for himself, but for his home. For Thailand. For the kids he skates with who see him and his successes and believe a little more strongly in their own potential. For his parents whose belief in him bolstered him as he trained overseas in a completely unfamiliar place as a teenager.

Of _course_ Phichit could cancel. Seung-gil knows he would, in Phichit’s place. But Phichit has dreams. Responsibilities. The people who love him depend on him, and he honors their trust. A weekend in Japan isn’t worth what it would cost him to cancel a promise. Let alone a promise he made in order to present himself as a representative of his country and culture.

What does it say about Seung-gil that he’d give up a similar opportunity without a second thought for Phichit?

It isn’t until he hears a wet breath over the speaker that Seung-gil’s whole system jolts with shock. “Are you crying?” he asks.

He’s seen Phichit cry; he usually enjoys it. It’s from passion, usually—a swell of relief and pride and hope and _glory_ , even when he knows he won’t medal.

This is smaller. Jagged. Hidden.

“Can I call you in the morning?” Phichit asks. He sounds…bleak. “I’ll just…I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He hangs up.

Seung-gil sits rigid in the ensuing haze. It occurs to him that he should turn his phone screen off, and then it shuts off by itself.


	8. December 30-31, 2017 | January 1, 2018 (morning)

Seung-gil wakes up five times on Saturday. The first time, it’s dark and Sunja is a dozing lump beside him. The next three times, it’s incrementally brighter, and he feels sore enough and hazy enough to shut his eyes and coast on the surface of threadbare consciousness. The fifth time, the sky is gray and Sunja is gone. It feels late. It probably is.

His first impulse is to check his phone, then he remembers the sound of Phichit crying. It’s all too possible right now that any conversation they have—written or spoken—will end with similar results. So when he finally drags himself to the bathroom, he leaves his phone face down on the desk where he left it last night. It isn’t plugged in, and he doesn’t feel particularly motivated to do anything about that.

Showered and dressed in a fresh set of gym clothes, Seung-gil drops onto his living room sofa to put on socks and…just…stops.

He feels…stagnant. Only the discordant noises of Sunja chomping down her breakfast in the kitchen give him a slim hint of proof that he’s awake.

His face keeps pinching, his breaths shuddering and thin.

No one on his team is expecting to see him today. Saturdays are his day to do what he deems best, now that he’s independent. That’s skating, normally. An hour or two at the gym, maybe. …Packing for a trip he’s not taking anymore.

The next three days are empty, too. With Sapporo cancelled, he should contact his team and let them know the change.

He should check his phone. Phichit said he wanted to talk today, and the longer he puts it off, the more complex a problem they’ll have to fix.

He should eat.

He should—

He yanks off both socks and tosses them to the far end of the sofa. Fuck it.

Fuck it all.

He pushes himself off the sofa and slogs back to bed. Some indeterminate amount of time later, Sunja joins him and slots her cold nose against his neck.

“Fuck it all,” he whispers.

She offers what might be a sympathetic snuffle in return.

•

The rest of the day passes in a fit of quiet. He sleeps and wakes for unpredictable lengths; the fog inside him keeps the hours vague and indistinguishable. He doesn’t bother looking at the clock—what’s the point?—and only when Sunja whines and licks his hand urgently does his guilt force him to get up and take her outside.

He’s still in his gym clothes, wrapped in an ill-fitting jacket too thin to protect against the cold, while Sunja noses around the grass of the local park. He thinks the jacket might belong to one of the twins—they’re taller and broader in the shoulders, and sometimes through the magic of unconscious sibling thievery Seung-gil winds up with his brothers’ things.

After a solid five minutes of walking the circumference of the field, Sunja lashes her tail and bawls out some truly harrowing whines. She wants to run, so Seung-gil sighs and unhooks her leash. If he’s fined, so be it. It won’t be the first time he’s had to defend his free-thinking roommate against the authorities and their asinine rules for the country’s canine population.

He slings himself onto a bench and rests his elbows on his knees, focused on breathing deep, full breaths and only succeeding 40% of the time. The clouds above hang low and heavy with the promise of inclement weather of some kind. It smells like rain, but it’s cold enough for snow. Maybe it’ll be some combination of both.

The AirBnB in Sapporo probably gets a lot of snow this time of year. Maybe it’s best they couldn’t go; if they’d been snowed in, it would have been an even bigger hassle for Phichit. Or maybe it’s unseasonably warm and the pond never froze over. Phichit probably didn’t ask the host about the pond’s suitability for skating.

Across the park, an old man scowls at Sunja. The furry frolicking thing is rolling on her back, tongue lolling upside-down while she pedals her paws in the air. The old man has an ancient flip phone in his hand and a coffee cup in the other, and he’s struggling to open the phone’s cover without dropping the cup. This must be the highlight of his day, Seung-gil thinks, getting a dog in trouble.

Seung-gil takes that as their cue to leave. Paying a fine is one thing, but he doesn’t particularly want to deal with this old jerk yelling at him. He calls Sunja to him, hooks her leash to her collar, and leads the way to their building.

The streetlights are glowing by the time they make it there, and the doorman gives Seung-gil a polite, “Good evening,” as he and Sunja pass.

In the elevator, a thick twang of pain fills his head. If he went back to his bed now, he knows he could sleep for at least another thirteen hours.

What would happen if he skipped the Olympics altogether? Such a steep climb to get there, and one simple phone call could end it all. The dream of millions of athletes, cast aside like an unwanted vegetable. It’s tempting, but maybe too American.

By midnight, he’s such a tangle of terrible thoughts and sensations that he almost doesn’t recognize the hunger pangs making him feel faint. At least that’s one problem he knows the solution to. He hauls himself out of bed, shuffles into the kitchen, and pours raw chunks of chicken into a pan with oil. He salts them as an afterthought, then adds a generous dollop of his mother’s homemade hot sauce.

He sits in the living room to eat from a bowl, staring at the lights of the city without taking anything in.

Sunja sits next to him and licks his arm.

When he’s done eating, he brushes his teeth and goes back to bed. Maybe he’ll do laundry tomorrow. That should kill some time. He closes his eyes sometime after one, and falls asleep hours afterward.

•

Pressure on his forehead brings Seung-gil out of a shallow sleep with a rough gasp. Glaring sunlight forces him to squint, and his head pounds with lack of sleep and…everything else that’s weighing it down.

Dae-sung takes his hand back, frowning. “Did you miss your flight?”

Oh. Right. He never told Dae-sung he doesn’t need him to watch Sunja after all.

Seung-gil rubs his face with both hands, then decides he likes how it feels to conceal himself from the world, and leaves them there. “Phichit canceled,” he says. It doesn’t hurt as much to say as he expected. It still isn’t Phichit’s fault, after all. Maybe that’s why.

Dae-sung stares at him, and Seung-gil feels struck by an unexpected burst of nostalgia. How many years has it been since Dae-sung sat on his bed and woke him up like this? Nineteen? “Is he all right?” Dae-sung asks. “When did he cancel? Last night?”

“I forgot to tell you,” Seung-gil says. “He has some television thing to do that he didn’t think he’d have to do.”

“Oh,” Dae-sung says. His frown takes a lateral jump from confused to concerned. “What are you doing instead?”

Seung-gil stares back, uncomprehending. Isn’t it obvious…?

It takes several seconds of Dae-sung waiting for an answer that isn’t going to happen, then Dae-sung sighs and says, “Right. Well. Take a shower and get dressed. You and Sunja are coming with me to Mom’s.” He stands with purpose, bafflingly, and crosses the room to the door where Sunja appears, noisily licking her muzzle.

“Why am I going with you?” Seung-gil asks. “I’m staying here.”

“Because it’s our grandfather’s birthday, and you have no excuse not to go now.”

Seung-gil pinches his eyes closed and resists the seductive urge to throw himself off the building.

•

He remembers at the last minute to bring his phone.

•

In the car, he remembers it’s dead.

•

Birthdays in the Lee family are staid and unremarkable events for every member except Seung-gil’s paternal grandfather. It’s been the twins’ longstanding theory that he suffers from a bit of an inferiority complex from being a misogynist married to a woman far more competent and motivated than he is. His company may have brought the family enough wealth to stretch across all four living generations, but his wife is the sole reason the company survived long enough to do it.

In private—and very quietly—Jun-young and Dong-hyun call their grandmother “the company president” and their grandfather “the company mascot”.

And yet, he’s the patriarch of the family, and the second oldest generation of Lees consistently show a thankless obsession with upholding at least the appearance of filial piety. Every year on the old man’s birthday, his children throw him an extravagant party at the house of his eldest son—Seung-gil’s father—attended by at least thirty relatives. (As long as Seung-gil’s been alive, his relatives have demonstrated a remarkable talent for coming up with ever more creative excuses as to why Seung-gil’s grandmother can announce her birthday plans weeks before or after the day itself and still have double the number of guests show up.) As far as Seung-gil can tell, no one—not even his grandfather— _enjoys_ these requisite parties. Even though the old man's birthday is New Year's Eve, the first guests usually beg off around eight o’clock, and the old man himself sometimes sneaks out when no one’s got their eye on him. These events exist purely to prove that the second generation of Lees are devoted sons and daughters.

Seung-gil has carried the rare distinction of being allowed to skip the last four birthday celebrations, thanks to his training. That he was almost able to miss this one too makes the open wound he’s carrying around sting just that much more.

More than half of the invited relatives are milling around the house when Seung-gil arrives on Dae-sung’s heels, and there’s a triumphant burst of noise as they enter.

“Check it out!” calls a cousin. “The Olympic torch passes through the House of Lee!”

“South Korea’s next Olympic champion is here!” shouts another.

“That medal is as good as won, right, kid?” Seung-gil’s youngest uncle bellows. “Only gold will do, you know! Or your grandfather’s not gonna let you in for next year’s party!”

Laughter rings out from all corners of the room, and Sunja abandons Seung-gil to make a dash for the kitchen, where mixed cries of delight and outrage erupt. Seung-gil hovers closer to Dae-sung’s side, deciding that his traitor brother is better than his loud, noisy relatives. Still—

“I hate you,” Seung-gil shares.

Dae-sung wraps an arm around his shoulders and claps his bicep a few times. “Go find Grandfather and wish him a happy birthday,” he says with a placid smile. “I have to go pick up my wife and the girls.”

Seung-gil assembles every tiny gram of patience he has left and picks his way through the room, trying not to scream every time someone stops him to ask about PyeongChang. It’s an arduous journey, and he’s forced to listen to six stories about his relatives’ tenuous ties to former and current Olympic athletes, one dubious rumor that a member of the family once dated one of the silver medalists in pair skating, and four separate interrogations into his health and diet, plus one furious diatribe about the cost and waste of Olympic ceremonies. By the time he finds the old man, Seung-gil’s hanging on to his sanity by a thread.

One look at the brawny old man in his mother’s plush armchair reminds Seung-gil why he normally goes out of his way not to see him. The man’s default expression is eyes shut and bottom lip jutted out in perpetual consternation, and his default volume is “loud”. Seung-gil says, “Happy birthday, Grandfather,” and fantasizes about being in another country with his boyfriend or literally just _anywhere_ but here. He bows as an afterthought.

His grandfather spits a cherry pit into his palm alongside six others. “Which one are you?” he asks, scowling.

Seung-gil thinks, _You won’t remember if I tell you,_ and wonders if he can think of anything more polite than that.

While he’s thinking up lukewarm alternatives, the thirty-something wife of Seung-gil’s youngest uncle jogs up to the armchair and offers the old man an empty bowl. She says, “For the pits, Grandfather,” and bows her head with the utmost respect. She just married into the family last year, and her craving for acceptance is a little embarrassing.

The old man dumps the sticky pits into the bowl and gives the residue on his hand a disapproving grimace.

“Ah,” Seung-gil’s aunt says, wide-eyed, “one moment!” She sprints back toward the kitchen with the bowl, ostensibly to retrieve a damp towel.

She nearly runs into Seung-gil’s father, who jumps to one side of the doorframe and chuckles. “Ah! Seung-gil!” He crosses the room and takes a knee by the armchair, clasping the old man’s forearm. “Father, this is my middle son, Seung-gil. He’ll be competing in the Olympics in PyeongChang next month.”

Seung-gil’s grandfather grunts. “What sport?” he asks.

Seung-gil’s father makes the mistake of hesitating, and Seung-gil wonders if he was going to try “a popular winter sport” the way he did with his Australian clients.

“He’s a lovely figure skater, Grandfather,” Seung-gil’s youngest aunt says. Sure enough, she’s carrying a small wooden tray with a rolled-up, steaming hand towel on it. “I can show you some videos of him performing, if you like!”

The old man says, “I like the summer Olympics,” and takes the towel from the tray. He summarily wipes the palm of his hand, then runs the other side over his face and neck.

“Your mother might have work for you in the kitchen,” Seung-gil’s father says, and Seung-gil accepts the escape route for what it is.

The kitchen is no quieter than the chaos behind him, but it happens to contain his mother, grandmother, and the twins, and this by default makes it less uncomfortable.

His grandmother is seated at the table, peeling grapes for herself. Across from her, Dong-hyun is counting stacks of plates and piles of silverware. Their mother is at the oven peering in at what’s likely one of the main courses, and Jun-young is prepping what looks like an appetizer.

“Welcome to Hell, big brother,” Dong-hyun calls without looking up.

“Dong-hyun,” their mother says, gaze still locked on the oven, “if you lose count one of those one more time—hello, Seung-gil—I’m going to serve you whatever the dog doesn’t eat.”

Sunja yips.

Seung-gil sidles up to Jun-young, taps him on the hip, and says, “Do you have a phone charger?”

“In our room,” Jun-young answers. He’s been put to work, it seems, shaving radishes and carrots into thin strips, and Seung-gil remembers all at once that their grandfather has been banned from eating meat by his doctor.

He leaves the kitchen without saying hello to anyone, and pretends not to see his grandmother’s disapproval writ large on her face. He skirts the perimeter of the room, phone held to his ear, and pretends to be listening very hard to someone very important.

There’s no one upstairs at all, to his great satisfaction, and the twins keep their room clean enough that finding a charger for his phone takes only a moment. He plugs in, leaves it on one of the desks in the center of the room, and sprawls on Dong-hyun’s bed. After a luxurious inhale and exhale, he wonders if he’s put in enough of an appearance at the party. If anyone nags him, he’ll remind them that in the last twenty minutes, he’s spoken to more people than he has in the last ten months.

He supposes if he skips the Olympics, he’ll at least be presenting his family with the gift of gossip fodder for decades.

He doesn’t fall asleep, but he isn’t exactly awake either when his phone chimes to announce that it’s powering up. Seung-gil tells himself that he’s prepared for the number of notifications that will be waiting for him, but it still takes a full ten minutes for him to pick up his phone and then turn the screen to face himself.

To his surprise, Phichit’s name isn’t at the top of the list. Whoever is isn’t important, so Seung-gil keeps scrolling, disregarding every notification that has some mention of something he’s not in any frame of mind to deal with. Which is all of them.

He almost misses Phichit’s name, but the moment he recognizes it, he swipes the notification open.

The message waiting for him isn’t short, and it follows a series of other shorter messages timestamped all throughout yesterday. A fissure of remorse sears through Seung-gil’s middle.

[Hae-il and I talked.] Which… _what?_ [I talked to Yuuri, too. And Viktor. And Celestino.] Not Ciao Ciao. And doesn’t that set the tone and turn Seung-gil’s stomach. [Maybe that was too many people to talk to…but I’ve been worried! And I couldn’t talk to you. You’re not ignoring me, are you? I don’t think you would, not intentionally, but…… Supatra thinks it’s just part of being in a long-distance relationship. Things suck for one of you or both of you and you can’t always be around physically, so you only hear things secondhand and through a filter of “Oh this happened but I’m fine now”. Chris just said we’re young, but that wasn’t helpful. :/// My parents really like you, and my dad says my mom was really quiet about her problems when they first started dating. She said she wanted their relationship to be free of stress until they got to know each other better, but they weren’t long distance, so…we don’t really get that luxury of, like, dating slowly, do we? I read a bunch of articles on this, can you tell? I tried to read some in Korean but I’m nowhere near fluent enough for that yet. I used an online translator a lot. 55555 Look, I don’t know what to do to help, and the one idea I really had faith in backfired. I just want you to know I’ll do whatever you need, and I want to help. I just don’t always know how. I’m sending this before I rethink sending it.]

It’s timestamped three hours ago.

Without reading the other messages, Seung-gil switches his phone screen off and drops it onto the carpet.

This time, he _does_ sleep.

•

At two in the morning, Dong-hyun kicks him out of his bed, and Seung-gil wanders downstairs where his parents are drinking and laughing with his aunts and uncles. Seung-gil manages to sneak by them undetected, grab his coat from the closet, then let himself out into the garden. His socks aren’t much insulation against the frigid temperatures, but it serves to wake him up with a snap. He should go home once he finds Sunja.

“You.”

The voice is a little louder than a whisper, and it startles him badly enough that he almost trips while standing still. Above him, on the second-story balcony, his grandmother is leaning her elbows on the ledge, smoking a cigarette.

“I thought you went home,” she says. A cloud of smoke ghosts from her lips, chalk white against the night sky.

Seung-gil decides in a heartbeat that she’s the only person in the country he can stomach talking to right now, so he climbs the spiral staircase up to the balcony. He and his brothers were all banned from this place when they were children, and they’d speculate about what their grandmother kept up here in the private space off her bedroom. Hae-il spent two years convinced she had a collection of venomous snakes, but Seung-gil always suspected she just didn’t want to spend more time with children than she had to.

She’s never confirmed nor denied this, but he’s pretty sure he was right.

What she does keep up here are plants. Flowers and vines and potted plants of so many varieties she had to train Seung-gil’s oldest aunt on how to take care of them when she’s out of town. Now, though, in the dead of winter, most of them are either kept inside or dormant for the season. It makes the balcony feel somehow colder than the ground was.

He takes a spot beside her and leans on the ledge.

She puffs on her cigarette until the red reaches nears her fingers, then she stubs it out on the ashtray by her left elbow. Seung-gil watches the last curls of smoke dissipate on the breeze.

“Your mother told everyone you needed to rest for your training,” his grandmother says. “But she thinks you’re depressed.”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, so he doesn’t. His eyes travel the width of the garden and land on his father’s prized surrealist stone fountain, drained until spring arrives.

“I don’t think she’s wrong.”

Seung-gil rubs his forehead. “Why don’t you just say, ‘I think she’s right’?” he asks. “Why say it so roundabout?”

“All right,” she says, conceding the point with a tip of her head. “I think you’re depressed. I think your grandfather is depressed. I think it runs in the family, and no one wants to admit it.”

“The old man is just an asshole,” Seung-gil says.

With a deft stroke, she slaps him upside the head, and he stares at her, wide-eyed. In all his life, he’s never seen her strike anyone.

She only side-eyes him. “Watch your mouth,” she says, mild. “You can think whatever you please, but you’re getting too old to speak without consequences.”

He works his mouth, but can’t think of a single thing to say in his defense. Fine, maybe she doesn’t like hearing that the man she married is an asshole. Maybe no one’s ever had the nerve to say it to her face before.

He can see why.

“Why were you here today?” she asks. “Dae-sung said you were planning to go to Japan with your boyfriend.”

Seung-gil struggles to swallow and has to tilt his head back a bit to manage it. “Where is Dae-sung anyway?” he asks, rough.

“He went home with his family,” she says. “And he took the dog.”

“Damn it,” Seung-gil sighs. He tenses, but this, apparently, she’s fine with. Now he'll be alone tonight. Fine. Fine.

“Since you were a boy,” his grandmother says, peering up at the sky with her chin in her hand, “you’ve reminded me of myself. We’re alike in more ways than you can see now, and though I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, I try to help you when I think I should. Some truths in life you’ll need to discover on your own to appreciate them, but I’ve walked some of the same paths you’ve taken and I know where I would have benefited from a voice of experience.”

He can tell she’s leading up to some kind of advice, and he’s eager for her to say it already so he can dismiss himself and go home for two more days of sleep and general inactivity. Then he can slog on until Four Continents are out of the way, and then the Olympics, and Worlds, and…then…then…?

“Go see your boyfriend, Seung-gil.”

He hears her, but the meaning doesn’t permeate right away.

When it finally does, all he can find in himself to do is stare at her. She stares back, eyebrows arched, almost aggressively unimpressed.

“He’s in Thailand,” Seung-gil tells her.

“So go to Thailand,” she says. “You went to France for no reason and gave your mother a stroke. Then you went to Japan with him for no reason, so—”

“There was a competition in Japan.”

“—you can go to Thailand when you need to. Japan, Thailand—who cares? You travel often, your family is rich, and your sponsor is an airline. Call Nadica in the morning and get a ticket to go see your boyfriend.” She picks up her ashtray and plucks her coat higher around her neck. “And now I’m going to sleep. Say goodbye to your parents before you leave, and take a taxi home. No one down there is in any state to drive you. Goodnight.”

He watches her leave, mouth parted around an objection he can’t put words to.

She opens her bedroom door and closes it without looking back.

He’s been very explicitly dismissed, but he stays on her balcony, jaw trembling, until the lights downstairs go out. His fingers are red from the cold, his feet have gone numb, and every breath through his nose is wet. He only thinks to move when his phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he takes it out, he has to close his eyes to keep his composure.

Without looking, he swipes the screen and brings the phone to his ear.

“Seung-gil…? Ah, happy new—”

He blurts, “Stop," and then, in the startled silence, "can I come see you? …Please?”

“…To Thailand?”

“Yes, please. To Thailand.”

“You…really?”

“Yes. Please.”

Things aren't quiet on Phichit's end. Enthusiastic rapid-fire Thai and sugar-bright pop music fill the background, and Seung-gil remembers that it's probably only one in the morning there, and the program Phichit hosted must be still running or just finished. He licks his lips and wonders what will happen next in his life if Phichit says no.

“You want to come to _Thailand?_ To see _me?_ Wait, _when?_ ”

Seung-gil opens his mouth, then closes it. Then, “Tomorrow.”

Only seconds separate that one word from Phichit's answer, but it might as well be hours for how tight Seung-gil's chest feels with how short his breath becomes.

Phichit's smile is clear in his voice when he says, “You're going to tell someone this time, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \:D/


	9. January 1st, 2018 (morning)

He doesn’t sleep, but he doesn’t try to. He instead fills the first several hours of the new year writing to Phichit until Phichit can’t physically stay awake anymore, then switches tracks to packing for his first extended stay in Thailand. Heeding Phichit’s warning about the weather, Seung-gil throws ten T-shirts into the washing machine to rinse them out, then rolls up five pairs of sweatpants and tucks them into the bottom of his suitcase, and sprawls on his bed to read comics on his phone while the spin cycle wraps up. Without Sunja, his solitude feels more claustrophobic, and he sends Dae-sung an irritated message just before dawn asking him not to steal his roommate anymore. He doesn’t include “please”.

With the sun barely up over the horizon, he steps into a taxi and gives the driver two destinations. His eyes feel dry and sore, so he closes them as the taxi pulls away from his building. There’s a gritty sensation when his lids meet, and a heartbeat later, the driver is saying, “Excuse me,” and Seung-gil struggles to wake up.

Dae-sung’s house is ludicrously and unapologetically expensive and protected by heavy security, so Seung-gil isn’t sure how the taxi driver got through the main gate. He supposes the guard might have recognized Seung-gil in the backseat, or more likely he radioed the house to inform them about the stranger in a taxi making a very poor attempt at invading their home.

Seung-gil says, “Thank you,” to the driver, and lets himself out. The walk to the doorstep takes only four strides, and he can hear the automatically-triggered doorbell’s melody through the door as he approaches.

The door opens to Dae-sung’s older daughter in her black and yellow pinstriped pajamas. Her face transforms in an instant from reserved to severe. “You can’t take Sunja back,” she says, pulling the door closer to her body. “Not until Wednesday. Daddy said.”

Seung-gil nods. “Okay,” he says. “Want to keep her longer than that?”

Her eyes flare wide, then narrow. “Why?”

“I’m going somewhere,” he says. “My roommate, please. I’d like to say goodbye.”

Dae-sung emerges from behind the door, where he’s likely been standing the whole time. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“I don’t have to tell you,” Seung-gil says. “Sunja, please.”

On cue, Dae-sung’s younger daughter toddles down the hall wearing white and gold pajamas and a neon orange blanket cape. She’s leading Sunja with a hand wrapped around her collar, and her face becomes pure joy when she sees her uncle. “Sungi Sungi Sungi!”

The moment Sunja recognizes Seung-gil’s scent, she speeds up and forces the little girl to run at a more coordinated pace. Seung-gil catches Sunja’s front paws and squeezes them, accepting her enthusiastic slobbering greetings with stoic affection. He says to his brother, “Don’t forget to feed her,” with a severe frown.

Dae-sung’s older daughter huffs. “That’s not his job, Uncle! It’s _my_ job! And I have a _schedule_.”

Seung-gil says, “Good,” and bends just enough to give Sunja a hug. She whines a little, starting to understand that he isn’t taking her with him, but he knows she’ll have better company here for now. They’ll take her out, spoil her with treats she hasn’t earned, and let her sleep in a different bed every night. She won’t have to run by herself. She’ll have two overactive children who might just exhaust _her_ for a change, and if she misses him while he’s gone, it’s not forever. Only for…some time.

Dae-sung rests his hand on his younger daughter’s head, probably to discourage her from jumping up and down the way she is. “Did you say goodbye to Hae-il or did I get the sole pleasure of a goodbye because I stole your dog?” he asks.

Seung-gil stands and raises his eyebrow. “I didn’t say goodbye to you either.” He pats the side of his older niece’s face without looking and turns back to the idling taxi.

“Sungi, no!” his younger niece cries.

Sunja gives an equally distraught yip, but Seung-gil waits until the car door is closed with him inside to give them all one last glance. Dae-sung’s wife has joined her family in the doorway, looking puzzled, then she grins when she catches sight of Seung-gil. All four of them wave, and the two girls struggle to keep Sunja from following the taxi.

When they’re out of sight, Seung-gil closes his eyes for a much longer nap.

There.

With all his loose ends seen to, Seung-gil says, “Terminal one, please,” and exhales.

•

He arrives at the airport to news that his business class seat has been upgraded to first class, and the young guy behind the Nadica counter telegraphs his interest in Seung-gil just a shade shy of too blatantly. It would have made Phichit laugh, if he were here. Seung-gil makes a note to tell him later. He doesn’t have many happy things to say, so he’ll have to collect some on his journey.

It feels odd to be traveling internationally without Min-so, and it occurs to him as he’s browsing the fruit in the priority members’ lounge that he can do quite literally whatever he wants on this trip. Despite his grandmother’s explicit instructions to say goodbye to his parents, he in fact did no such thing. His mother will be apoplectic with worry, for one thing, and his father…well. Maybe he could have told his father. He’s not sure his father has had a fully-formed opinion on anything to do with his middle son since Seung-gil was born, and even then it was probably only, “Ah, another boy,” at best.

Seung-gil’s flight is one of the first on the departure boards, and he’s settling into his seat when his phone lights up with Phichit’s name.

[GOOD MORNING! I can’t believe I’m going to see you today!!! Is it really empty at the airport? Are you on your plane? How did you sleep? I barely did! Ah!!!! Wait, you’re on the plane, right? Did you sleep at all???]

Seung-gil hides a smile behind his hand. He barely acknowledges the flight attendant as she places a hot hand towel on the broad arm table beside him and types a response. His body lightens more and more with every word.

[It wasn’t very busy, but it’s still early. I’m on the plane. I didn’t sleep.]

He sends it and instantaneously, ‘Read’ appears.

[Seung-gil! Well, it’s okay. You can sleep here.]

What follows can only be described as a cavalcade of hearts and the entire happy end of the emoji spectrum.

[Okay,] Seung-gil writes back, smiling.

•

The plan is to take a taxi from the airport to Phichit’s apartment so as to draw as little attention to himself as possible. The plan beyond that has yet to be made, since everything is tentative and tinged with last-minute, anticipatory energy. He’s lucky no one on the flight is bothering him, he reflects as he collects his suitcase from the overhead bin. More than half of the passengers appear hungover at best, though, and Seung-gil himself probably doesn’t look anything like he normally does on camera at the moment either. It’s possible there’s a fan or two somewhere in the huddle that shuffles off the plane, just too exhausted and dehydrated to do more than recognize him and post about it online.

His phone doesn’t work here, but he isn’t planning on doing anything more complex than showing Phichit’s address to a taxi driver and then remaining with Phichit for the entire duration of his stay, so he passes through the airport without addressing the issue.

As he’s heading toward the taxi stand, shivering a little in the humid air, a hand taps the top of his head. Phichit’s tennis player friend is standing behind him, and considering her gold, sequined top and black, skin-tight jean shorts with a long shimmering trail of skirt-like fabric hanging off one side, he’s surprised he didn’t hear her coming.

“I’ve been sent to collect you,” she says, tugging down her sunglasses and offering him a wink. “Let’s get going before we find out how many sports fans are visiting the airport today, shall we?”

Her comment is accompanied by a darting glimpse to her left, where a cluster of white tourists are staring at them. They’re probably trying to puzzle out what business he has with the local Instagram model. She, dressed in tailored couture and completely at home in the glaring sunlight, and he, pale and sweating through his rainbow-tinted T-shirt even though he’s long since taken off Hae-il’s bomber jacket and tied the sleeves around his waist. They probably seem like unlikely friends, let alone whatever it is they actually are, however Phichit’s connected him to her.

She leads Seung-gil to her parked car, a matte fuschia Lamborghini, and opens the doors by remote. “Your bag’ll fit in the back,” she says, dropping into the driver’s side.

It does—barely—but figuring out the best dimensions for it keeps him out in the open too long, and he’s forced to endure several seconds of middle-aged Thai couples chuckling at the continued presence of his jacket around his waist. Then they lose interest in him altogether and gawk at the car instead.

Once Seung-gil is sitting in the passenger’s seat beside Phichit’s friend, he asks, “You’re not trying to be subtle?”

She gives him a mildly offended look. “I’m wearing sunglasses, aren’t I?” Then she brings the engine to roaring life and peels out of the airport with a gleeful cheer.

Her name is Supatra, he remembers. The fact pops up in his mind, sudden and unsummoned. He repeats the name to himself as quietly as he can so he doesn’t forget.

“Is this your first time here?” Supatra asks.

He says, “No.” Then, out of politeness to Phichit, adds, “Yes. Sort of. I changed planes here on my way somewhere else.” In fairness, he saw very little of the country from the airport windows, so it doesn’t feel like it should count. The only moment of significance—that he’s never going to share aloud—was when he realized, as he and Ji-na and Jung-oh chased after Min-so in search of their gate, that Tae-woo had never been in Phichit’s home country. It was a small victory, minuscule in comparison to the victories in Tae-woo’s column—making Phichit laugh, kissing him, touching him—but at that point, any victory was good enough to matter to Seung-gil, and it boosted his morale for at least a week.

Until Tae-woo told the locker room at large that he spent the week they were all competing in Europe hanging out on Jeju Island for his cousin’s wedding and sexting Phichit the entire time. Phichit, who only said, “Hey!” to Seung-gil once and then spent the rest of his free time learning some card game from two American skaters who aren’t even in the circuit anymore.

The memory darkens his mood, but he forces himself out of it. His idiot teenage years are best forgotten, and Tae-woo isn’t even a player anymore.

“So, listen,” Supatra says, glancing over at him with solemnity that puts him on edge. “We don’t know each other very well yet, but I want you to know…I think you’re trying really hard for him, and he knows it. Just…in case he gets frustrated at any point, I thought you should know he spends more time mooning over you and talking about how great you are than he does being upset about anything.” Her voice is warm and she probably thinks what she’s said is comforting, but Seung-gil licks his lips.

“He’s upset with me?”

She wrinkles her nose and rushes to say, “Well, no, not with y—” But to her credit, she tucks her lips to the side and thinks through her answer. She apparently decides to revise and says, “A little bit.”

He appreciates the honesty, if nothing else.

“It’s just a problem the two of you are going to have to figure out,” she continues. “Communication is hard enough for two outgoing people. You’re…different.” She returns to wrinkling her nose. “He’s just frustrated that he can’t keep in regular contact with you.” And that’s…fair. “But I think actually having you here will go a long way to calming him down.”

_Calming him down…?_

Seung-gil nods, half-formed questions crowding his tongue, then lets his gaze swing back to the scenery sliding by. Other drivers are in soft linen shirts and string-strapped dresses and cotton blend tank tops. Some even have their windows down, elbows out in the whipping breeze. Supatra changes lanes, and Seung-gil marvels at how smoothly and cautiously she drives compared with the way she began.

After several minutes of silence, Supatra turns down the air conditioning and selects a playlist from her phone—something with electronic instrumentals—but she keeps the volume low. He’s not sure if she just prefers it that way or if she’s signaling to him that she expects more verbal participation from him. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to speak, though. Not at first. After all, it’s early, he didn’t sleep, and he wasn’t expecting to be ambushed and then trapped like this by his boyfriend’s best friend.

As the minutes tick by, however, he remembers the only other conversation they’ve had to date, and how she’s a dog person.

“I have a dog,” he tells her.

She grins, eyes on the road. “I know. Sunja, right?”

He can’t remember if he told her or if she heard it from Phichit.

“Yeah.”

She lifts her hips and retrieves her phone from a pocket longer than the length of her jean shorts. She thumbs the screen open and hands it to him. “Open the photo app,” she says. “I took some shots of my dog this morning.”

He moves before he’s entirely aware he is, and sure enough, on the screen below are about twenty-six shots of a tiny black Pomeranian. Probably a puppy, but then…it’s a Pom.

His face is moving, Seung-gil realizes, and touches his own lips to confirm that he’s involuntarily started smiling.

“Her name is Punk,” Supatra says. “Mainly because my mom doesn’t know what it means and it’s hilarious to hear her sing it whenever she sees her.”

Seung-gil reaches the end of the shots and cycles back to the beginning, taking more time on each one this time.

“She’s going to be six months old next Wednesday,” Supatra says. “So I’m going to make her a little dog-friendly cake for her Instagram page. She already has, like, twelve thousand followers. I have four. But it’s more than fair. Acclaimed international tennis champion, small puff of charcoal. Of course she has three times the follower count.”

She continues talking for the next forty-five minutes, and Seung-gil is honestly astonished by how comfortable he’s feeling when she stops the car and says, “We’re here!”

She doesn’t move to get out, and the expression on her face could probably best be described as “vigorously encouraging”. They’re underground, it seems, and her car is idling by an elevator bank eerily similar to the one in Seung-gil’s own building—the proof of globalization in tangible form.

“He’s upstairs,” she says, then picks up a bulky-looking key from one of the cup holders. “Use this to activate the elevator and it’ll take you directly to his floor.”

It’s a conversational cue, he can tell, signaling the end to his time with Supatra and her stories of Punk the Pomeranian. It’s also a cue to begin his time with Phichit, and so by all logic he should already be out of the car. Why isn’t he?

Her face says she’s thinking the same question, so he takes the key from her and says, “Thank you for the escort.”

She raises an eyebrow, her smile shifting into more playful territory. “You’re very welcome,” she says. “Go snuggle with your boy.”

He doesn’t deign answer that, and she’s polite enough to press the button that opens the door for him. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to do just to leave though, so as he’s pushing up out of the car, he adds, “I like Punk,” and offers her a tiny bow of his head as an additional thanks.

“Man, you’re cute,” she laughs. “Phichit’s right. Happy New Year, friend-in-law!”

The door swings shut before he can so much as react to that. As soon as he’s retrieved his suitcase from the trunk and made his way halfway to the elevators, she careens out of the parking garage with far more speed than she used at any point with Seung-gil in the car. He wonders with a wild flight into speculative territory if Phichit told her to drive safer than she usually would with him in the car.

It seems like something Phichit would do.

The thought of him alone has Seung-gil reaching for his phone before he remembers it’s nothing right now but an expensive rectangle made up of precious metals and glass. He exhales and pushes on to the elevator button. Maybe Supatra will call Phichit and tell him she dropped off Seung-gil.

Is it odd that she didn’t come up with him, too?

The elevator doors open, and Seung-gil drags his suitcase in. The air conditioning in here is industrial-strength, and Seung-gil inanely puts on his jacket in an attempt to protect his body from the constant shifts in temperature. Assisted by the mirror on the back wall, Seung-gil spends the next thirteen seconds trying to look less like he didn’t sleep all night and then continued not sleeping throughout a six-hour flight.

Ultimately he succeeds in covering his forehead and eyebrows with fringe and knocking an errant eyelash off his cheek. Maybe he should’ve let Phichit do that.

The elevator slows and then coasts to a smooth stop.

And really, he shouldn’t be surprised when the elevator doors open and the air is knocked out of him, he really shouldn’t.

Phichit smells like he just showered, fragrant with sharp, rich aromas that Seung-gil doesn’t recognize. The force of Phichit impacting his chest has put Seung-gil back into the elevator car, but Phichit’s still in the way of the door, leaving it no choice but to stay open. Phichit’s chin notches on his shoulder, and one of his hands winds tight into Seung-gil’s hair.

“I’m not letting you leave,” Phichit murmurs against his neck.

Seung-gil says, “Okay,” and feels the weight of everything dissolve as Phichit’s laughter brushes against his skin.

Phichit moves closer when Seung-gil winds his arms around his waist.

•

Over the last several months, Seung-gil has seen every centimeter of Phichit’s apartment, including the view from the balcony. Phichit doesn’t usually spend much time out there, but it’s the first place he brings Seung-gil after they’ve left shoes and sandals and Seung-gil’s suitcase in the entryway. He doesn’t let go of Seung-gil’s hand even when they’re at the railing and Phichit is pointing out and explaining the purpose of every building in sight. Seung-gil doesn’t look at any of it, because he’s in Thailand and Phichit is here, holding his hand.

It takes Phichit a solid twenty seconds to realize that Seung-gil isn’t listening, but he takes it well. He squeezes Seung-gil’s hand, smiling, and says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Seung-gil wants nothing more than to hold him again, so he says, “Can I hug you?”

Within the space of three seconds, Phichit’s entire expression goes soft and he launches himself at Seung-gil again, this time actually leaving the floor and trusting Seung-gil to catch him and support the entirety of his weight without warning. It not difficult. 

Seung-gil laughs, and Phichit leans back in his arms to give him a look of amused disbelief. “Did I just hear laughter from you?” Phichit asks, lacing his fingers behind Seung-gil’s neck. “ _You?_ ”

“No,” Seung-gil says, and his face is hot and he’s still smiling a little, but he doesn’t care.

Phichit ducks down and presses their foreheads together. He doesn’t seem in any rush to get down, which is good, because he’s just helped Seung-gil discover a new hobby he could spend a lot of his free time on in the future.

Phichit kisses his nose, then says, “You’re here,” with simple, thick emotion.

Seung-gil swallows, looking back and forth between Phichit’s eyes. Part of him can’t quite believe Phichit is this excited to see him, and it only brings back the memory of hearing him cry just a few nights ago. Before he can think better of it, Seung-gil says, “I’m sorry,” and then regrets it immediately because he has to concentrate on holding Phichit up and he can’t hide how his face must be broadcasting his guilt for the way he’s been behaving the last couple of weeks.

But of course, _of course_ , Phichit only moves his hands to Seung-gil’s face and kisses his forehead. “You’re here,” he says again. “We can talk about everything later, if you want, but…I’m just focusing on this for now.” He rounds his spine just enough to bring their lips together, just a glancing touch that makes Seung-gil exhale from the realization of how long it’s been since he’s kissed his boyfriend. _Phichit_. His _boyfriend_.

“What was your plan today?” Seung-gil asks, trying not to project too much hope of spending the entirety of it in bed with him.

Phichit grins, because Seung-gil is not a subtle human being and never has been. “I didn’t have one,” he says airily. “Any ideas?”

Seung-gil’s mind goes blank at the violent, crashing return of his sex drive, all but dead for the last few days.

Phichit gives a soft hum and slowly coaxes Seung-gil’s lips apart with his tongue. “Good,” he murmurs when they part, just long enough for him to add, “Me too.”

Seung-gil manages to get them back inside, and Phichit closes the sliding door without breaking the kiss—a talent Seung-gil has a bizarre urge to brag about to someone. He’s struck with a bolt of empathy for every couple he’s ever found annoying for behaving like this. At least they’re not somewhere public, and Phichit’s balcony is high enough that the likelihood of anyone seeing them is fairly low.

“Bedroom?” Phichit whispers, grazing the tips of their noses and keeping just out of Seung-gil’s reach for another kiss.

Seung-gil doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to; he knows where it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, what should the next chapter be almost entirely about? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.


	10. January 1st, 2018 (afternoon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the cliffhanger last week aaaand for jerking people's emotions around in general, I give y'all 5k of all-out, enthusiastic sexytiemz. ♡

In the few years that Tae-woo was fooling around with Phichit, as much as he enjoyed holding court and bragging about his experiences, he didn’t always announce every single detail to the locker room—just enough of them to obliterate any hope Seung-gil had of someday taking Tae-woo’s place. (Phichit is probably right that Tae-woo felt intimidated, but it didn’t seem that way at the time. And it wouldn’t have mattered even if Seung-gil knew at the time, because Tae-woo was still the one invited to hold and kiss the boy he cared for.)

Still, there were a surprising number of days when Tae-woo actually seemed to be aiming for subtlety. Someone would ask him if he was texting Phichit, and Tae-woo would smile at his phone and say, “Yeah,” but no story would follow. A few minutes would pass, then he’d just pocket his phone and bring up something completely unrelated, like the convention he’d been to over the weekend or the porn game that he’d nearly gotten caught playing on one of the school’s PCs.

Other days, chosen seemingly at random, Tae-woo would go into explicit detail of a nude photo he’d sent Phichit and the equally explicit reaction he’d gotten from it.

More than once Jung-oh would get fed up and insist, “No one cares about your sex life!” but it never had an effect. The other athletes who shared the locker room with them certainly did, and some of them would even risk being late to their own practice just to hear Tae-woo’s latest exploits.

Despite Seung-gil’s best efforts to avoid these retellings or at least forget what he’d heard later, there are still, even now, very powerful memories of those stories lingering in the shallow parts of his mind—easily recalled at a moment’s notice.

The Hong Kong story is definitively Seung-gil’s least favorite, because it was about Tae-woo giving Phichit his first kiss. And then feeling him up. A lot.

“I didn’t think I’d get hard just from kissing,” Tae-woo said as he stretched his quads with a socked foot up on the bench. Seung-gil’s bag was closest to his foot, and Seung-gil didn’t have to wonder very hard about whether or not Tae-woo was intentionally putting his crotch on display. “But fuuuck, his tongue is just…” He shook his head and turned his eyes up toward the ceiling as if beseeching some deity for the most salacious adjectives to use in his story. Some of the guys laughed, because they were all apparently the type to find pantomiming high comedy. “So we were alone on this stairwell, and it’s dark, but there’s that chance of getting caught, right?”

Seung-gil remembers being ready to leave at this point, and wondering why he wasn’t drawing the zipper of his bag across the teeth so he could go home and erase this entire sordid visual—

And then he realized he was _trying_ to visualize it.

Trying and succeeding.

“He wasn’t shy at all,” Tae-woo said to his semicircle audience, because he enjoyed the attention and of course he never made it overt to the others that he was doing this in part to spite Seung-gil. “I had him up against the wall, and he kept making these _noises_. Like, these whimpering sounds? I kept pretending I was going to put my hand lower. Then I’d take it away, and I swear, if we’d been somewhere more private? He absolutely would’ve—later, Seung-gil!—he absolutely would’ve let me suck him off.”

Seung-gil jerked off when he got home, imagining himself in Tae-woo’s place and hating how little he cared that this was likely exactly what Tae-woo intended to happen.

•

Now, six years later, that memory and a dozen others like it coalesce in Seung-gil’s mind while Phichit kisses his neck and plays the pad of his index finger over Seung-gil’s nipple through coarse fabric.

“This is the ugliest shirt I’ve seen on you yet,” Phichit says. How he makes his voice sound so fond while saying something so decidedly unkind is a worthy addition to the Hall of Phichit’s Unlikely Talents.

Seung-gil points out, “I don’t have to wear it anymore,” and his heart flips when Phichit grins.

“That’s true.” Phichit ducks his head and kisses the skin just above Seung-gil’s collar, sweet and quick. “Do you want to take a shower first?” he asks.

Seung-gil lingers too long on what that “first” implies for afterward, so his voice is a little quieter than he means it to be when he says, “Will you, too?”

The open affection on Phichit’s face does horrible, irreversible things to Seung-gil. “I just showered,” he says, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I finished blow drying my hair five minutes before you got here.”

Seung-gil nods and tells himself he can probably convince Phichit to join him at some point. Days after the GPF, he saw a particular shower scene in a porn video that he’s been vehemently determined to test in reality with Phichit, and he’s not leaving Thailand until he’s at least asked Phichit if he wants to try it, too.

“Do you want a bath or a shower?” Phichit asks.

It’s so domestic—such a simple and yet devastating question. Seung-gil doesn’t know how he earned the focus of someone like Phichit.

And because Seung-gil _can_ —because Phichit is giving him the most indulgent smile, and Phichit is so close and so _warm_ —he cups Phichit’s cheek in one hand and kisses him again. He can tell right away from the sound Phichit makes that it’s inelegant and a little too hungry, but it’s also driven by an urgency that Seung-gil hasn’t felt in days and he can’t control himself. Phichit’s skin is hot and soft under the strokes of his thumb, utterly without flaw like he is everywhere else, and even memories of Tae-woo can’t rein in how safe and comforting this feels. And without noticing, he’s started shaking.

Then Phichit covers Seung-gil’s trembling hand with his own. He gives Seung-gil’s fingers a firm squeeze, probably to tell him to slow down, so Seung-gil lifts his mouth and breathes in with a shiver, then manages to return with more focus, letting Phichit lead.

Phichit gives his hand another, longer squeeze, maybe of approval, and keeps his lips mostly closed. This kiss is gentler, but more stable.

They’re communicating _without words_ , Seung-gil realizes, and he can feel his own smile growing against Phichit’s mouth.

“Go shower,” Phichit whispers. He completely undercuts this command by sliding his free hand underneath Seung-gil’s shirt, his touch resolute and bold. “I want to show you some of the things I bought.”

Seung-gil raises his eyebrows. “What?” he asks.

The next kiss is deep, with closed eyes and soft traded sounds and Phichit’s fingertips teasing Seung-gil’s left nipple until the sensation there feels almost painfully sharp and tender.

“Go shower so I can show you,” Phichit murmurs.

“I can’t take a bath?”

“No,” Phichit says. He spreads his fingertips through Seung-gil’s hair, massaging over his scalp and drawing a rough breath from Seung-gil. “Too long. How about we take one together later?”

Seung-gil decides that’s more than fair.

Phichit presses one last kiss to Seung-gil’s throat and whispers, “I’ll get things ready while you’re gone.”

“‘Things’?”

Phichit grins at him. “Go. You’ll see.”

Only the fact that a quick shower will lead to a future where he finds out what Phichit is teasing at pushes Seung-gil to do as he asks.

•

For nearly twenty minutes Seung-gil scours his body as thoroughly as he can and nearly slips when he runs soap-slick fingertips over his perineum. He has no idea how far Phichit is willing to go with him—maybe he should have asked—but it seems wise to be prepared for anything.

He steps out of Phichit’s shower beaded with water and feeling cleaner than he has in recent memory. He smells decidedly unlike himself, too, because when confronted with Phichit’s assortment of brightly-colored bottles, Seung-gil’s bar of soap seemed almost insultingly insufficient by comparison, and he stole a sweet-scented dollop from the purple bottle that most resembled body wash. He’s sure Phichit will forgive him.

He wraps himself in a plush mint-green towel and peers at his foggy reflection, wondering if he’s meant to go out there naked or dressed or if the towel is good enough.

He should have asked about that, too.

With the shower off, he can hear voices in the other room. None of them are Phichit’s, but there’s a distant sort of quality to them that makes Seung-gil think Phichit’s probably watching something on his phone. In bed. Where he’s waiting.

Seung-gil inhales, eyes closed, and forces himself to recall that this isn’t their first time. It isn’t even their third, after their nights in Nagoya for the GPF. But he’s yet to feel _comfortable_ with what they’re doing. They’ve yet to try penetration, or toys, and Seung-gil has yet to even _kiss_ Phichit without that everlasting sense of disbelieving wonder.

He also can’t stay in the bathroom and force Phichit to retrieve him.

He decides the towel is enough cover and carries his bundle of clothes out into the hallway, his skin rippling into goosebumps from the conditioned air.

Moving at a slower pace than the one he arrived at, he notices a wall in the entry hallway studded with pins and nothing attached to them. Could it be some sort of art project Phichit never finished or did he have photos there once?

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask about them as he walks through Phichit’s doorway, and then all meaning flees his mind at once when he sees what his boyfriend has been preparing in his absence.

For one thing, Phichit’s changed clothes. The sleek black and gold striped shirt hanging off his shoulder is one Seung-gil recognizes from one of Phichit’s recent Instagram posts, the interactive one where he took shot after shot in dressing rooms around Bangkok and then asked his fans to guess which of the photographed outfits he bought. He sent the winner a package of snacks from his local grocery store (“Thailand has good snacks!” he said on Snapchat. “The world should know!”).

The thong is unfamiliar, but it’s immediately and permanently stored in Seung-gil’s memory. It’s all black and apart from the cut of fabric covering the front, it’s made up of narrow overlapping straps that frame Phichit’s hips.

Phichit himself is somehow at once the sexiest person Seung-gil has ever seen while also being the cutest. He hasn’t noticed Seung-gil yet, and he’s clearly not in any kind of conscious pose. He’s lying on his side on top of the blankets, one leg draped in front of the other and a thumb absently tracing one of the thong straps snug on his hip. He’s watching something exciting on his phone, volume high, but his expression is distant.

And by his feet on a small, square face towel, are at least five sex toys.

Seung-gil can’t believe—

Phichit’s eyes dart up and his slow, pleased smile brightens the room. He pushes up onto his knees, and Seung-gil doesn’t even try not to look down at the familiar thick outline behind that sleek cut of fabric. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lie if anyone asked if his mouth just started to water.

“C’mere,” Phichit says. He holds out both arms and makes definitive ‘come here’ motions with just his fingers.

Seung-gil leaves his clothes on the top of his suitcase, now sitting in the corner of Phichit’s room next to the full-length mirror that makes regular appearances in Phichit’s #morningselfie tag, and then crosses the room to kneel on the bed. The gap between them isn’t wide, but Phichit has to shuffle a little closer until their knees touch.

Phichit’s smooth bare shoulder has all of his attention—probably why Phichit left it exposed in the first place—so he isn’t expecting the hands pressing against his toweled thighs, rubbing into the muscle with intent.

It’s a struggle not to take a closer look at the toys.

“I have a lot of ideas,” Phichit says. “And I know you do, too. But I think we should start off small. And then…if you want to do more after that, we can. Okay?”

Seung-gil can barely activate the necessary muscles to swallow. He hears himself say, “Is that what you bought?” and gestures to the end of the bed without looking. His favorite moments from his frequent viewings of the Toys category on PornHub are assailing him in a wave.

Phichit leans some of his weight onto his hands braced on Seung-gil’s thighs and kisses him, slow and just shy of filthy. When he pulls away, he murmurs, “Some of it, yes.”

Which, of course, begs for a whole different round of questions, but Phichit puts an end to that thought by taking Seung-gil’s hand and guiding it between his legs, where the fabric is hot over his half-hard erection. Phichit’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs Seung-gil’s name, grinding up into Seung-gil’s palm, and this is at once twelve times better than any porn Seung-gil’s ever seen.

There’s no question of how filthy their next kiss is. Phichit moans and pants through the slide of tongue and Seung-gil finds himself trembling again, frantic to touch Phichit’s bare skin and hear him whimper for him like he did during their first time.

Phichit doesn’t bother with finesse or control now, just holds Seung-gil’s hand steady over his groin while he rocks into the pressure. He bites his own lip, head tipped back, and lets out a soft, “ _Ah,_ ” when Seung-gil kisses his exposed shoulder and follows the front straps of his thong back to the crease of Phichit’s ass where the narrowest strip of fabric is tucked deep.

The first light strokes have Phichit making the sweetest keening noises, his body arched and straining between the two worlds of sensation made by Seung-gil’s left hand massaging his erection and Seung-gil’s right hand teasing toward his hole. When Seung-gil’s fingertips brush a smooth, flat surface between Phichit’s cheeks, he feels Phichit’s breathing change.

“Is that…?”

Phichit meets his eyes, his mouth and chin dashed with a gleam of saliva, his chest rising and falling in shallow jerks, and his cheeks darker than usual with hunger and exertion. He nods. “You told me you liked them once,” he says, pressing his hips down and leaving Seung-gil no lingering doubt that his boyfriend is wearing a jeweled plug. Based entirely on an offhand comment he doesn’t even remember making.

“I brought condoms,” Seung-gil tells him in almost one sound. He brought an embarrassing number, in fact. He doesn’t plan on letting Phichit see how many.

A quick nod is all the acknowledgment that gets, luckily, and then Phichit’s hands are on the towel covering Seung-gil’s full erection and he’s asking, “Can I see you?” as if there’s any chance Seung-gil would ever want to say “no” to that.

He says, “Yes,” and Phichit grins and flings the towel away. It lands on the floor, maybe; Seung-gil doesn’t care.

He’s not surprised to visually confirm how hard he is—he’d done more to prepare than strictly necessary in the shower, and it’s left his patience in sheds. And now, imagining the most gorgeous man he knows maneuvering a dripping, lubed-up plug inside himself _for him_ is threatening to end things early. What did he _do_ to get this wonder of a person interested in him?

“Sorry,” he says, as soon as he realizes he’s been staring.

Trapped in a miasma of incredulity, he’s not in the most cognizant frame of mind when Phichit takes Seung-gil’s wrists and brings them back to Seung-gil’s sides. “Can I touch you for a while?” Phichit whispers.

Seung-gil nods. He doesn’t say aloud that he’s practically starving for any contact at all, as long as it’s Phichit.

He doesn’t expect Phichit to guide him onto his back, but he doesn’t object to it at all. When he’s prone, Phichit looks him over, his gaze heavy with lust. Seung-gil can’t quite wrap his mind around it—he’s fine, for what he is, but Phichit sees _himself_ every day. How is Seung-gil’s body in any way more exciting?

Feeling abruptly overexposed, Seung-gil decides to call Phichit’s attention elsewhere and asks, “Is that uncomfortable?” while gesturing vaguely toward the plug. He's genuinely curious, after all.

Phichit smiles, slow and teasing. “Not since the first few times.” He takes advantage of Seung-gil’s surprise to graze his tongue over both Seung-gil’s nipples, one after the other, obviously enjoying the noises it gets him. “It was a little tricky to keep in when you were holding me up on the balcony, though.”

Seung-gil blurts, “What?” even as his erection continues to stiffen and leak from Phichit’s fingertips working over his left nipple.

“I have a harness for it, too,” Phichit adds, winking. “But I figured we’d keep things simple for now.”

There are probably medical cases like this, Seung-gil muses, of people so turned on they died. He stares up at his boyfriend in near paralysis, replaying every piece of information he just received in his head and adding _breathe_ after each one.

Phichit nuzzles his neck. “You can play with it, if you want,” he says. “I do it to myself sometimes. I actually got a whole set of them after the GPF—I think this one is the middle size.” He traces his fingers low on Seung-gil’s stomach and blushes, whispering, “I don’t know what you did to me, but I’m pretty sure I was never this kinky before we started dating.”

Seung-gil says, “I was,” because even when he couldn’t touch Phichit, no one could stop him from fantasizing about it in as many ways as he could imagine. One thing is certain: if they date for another year, Phichit will never want for variety.

He doesn’t say that, of course, but Phichit’s softening smile implies that he’s on the right track to correctly assuming Seung-gil’s thought process. He’s getting too good at that.

With Phichit’s permission, and a heavy dose of curiosity to know how Phichit will react, Seung-gil turns onto his side and circles his arm around Phichit’s waist, his heart squeezing at the intimacy of what he’s about to do. He can’t quite look Phichit in the eye while he does it, so he drops his gaze to the pattern of the thong’s straps as he delves his fingers down the crease of Phichit’s ass.

He feels less embarrassed about it when Phichit pushes Seung-gil's fringe away from his forehead in smooth, continuous strokes. When he finds the edge of the plug warm against his thumb and forefinger, Seung-gil hesitates. He has no idea how to “play” with it. Most of the porn he's seen with plugs never really focuses on the tiny intimate moments like this.

Phichit saves him, as always. He says, “So,” while continuing to pet Seung-gil’s hair, “right now it just feels full, but taking it out and, um, putting it back in feels really good.” He licks his lips and inhales. “I’ve orgasmed with this one in and it…it’s completely different from anything I’ve ever felt.”

And, well, that’s more than enough motivation to experiment, isn’t it?

While Seung-gil tugs lightly on the base of the plug, Phichit reaches over to his bedside table and retrieves a bottle filled with what appears to be more lube than either of them would normally use in a month. But if Phichit’s embarrassed, he’s hiding it well.

“I think if I’m going to keep wearing it, I should add more,” Phichit says. He doesn’t seem affected at all by Seung-gil’s tentative manipulations.

“Do you want to?”

Phichit nods, and his smile then is the tiniest bit shy. “For now, yeah. I was thinking tomorrow we’d—? Or maybe tonight, if you’re not too tired…?” He adds a sheepish lift of his eyebrows and makes a crude gesture with his hands that can only mean penetration.

Seung-gil was nodding long before Phichit trailed off. “Okay,” he says fervently. “Either. Both?”

Phichit laughs. His relief is apparent in how quickly his shoulders relax. “Yeah. Me too. Either.” His smile becomes sly and somehow sweet. “Or both.”

Seung-gil grips the plug's base a little tighter and waits for Phichit to nod before he works it out with more deliberate force. It must be easy to see how nervous he is, because Phichit covers Seung-gil’s hand and demonstrates exactly how much he can take. Seung-gil tries to pay close attention so he remembers this, but he’s too busy watching Phichit’s toned stomach strain under his shirt as he holds his breath.

Once the plug has slipped out, Phichit lets Seung-gil bring it around for a closer look. It’s stainless steel, shaped like a very large teardrop, with a flat ruby gemstone on the end. When Seung-gil glances up at Phichit, he finds him distracted, eyes closed as he holds an arm behind himself and presumably massages his stretched hole.

Seung-gil kisses Phichit's knee on impulse, trying to protect the fragile atmosphere around them. Phichit opens his eyes and shows him a grin. “Did you figure out yet why I didn’t pick you up from the airport?” he asks. He holds his hand out and accepts the plug back from Seung-gil. The amount of lube he pumps onto it is staggering.

“I thought it was for subtlety,” Seung-gil says. “But no?”

“No,” Phichit confirms. He works his fingers over the slick curve of the plug, copiously coating the surface. “I would’ve gone! I just didn’t know how long traffic would be, and I…I wanted to do this for you, but I can’t keep it in as long as I want to yet.” He sneaks a sultry smile up at Seung-gil that robs his breath. “I wouldn't worry so much about subtlety. I’ve done some research into our fan base, and most of them think you’re taking trips here all the time anyway for some reason. Some think we’re friends, and some think something more, but…” He brandishes the plug with an impish kind of glee, lube so generously applied it's webbed between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think anyone’s guessed we're doing this yet. So I don’t think we have to hide that you’re here. It probably wouldn’t be worth the effort anyway, since someone definitely spotted you in one of the airports, just wait and see.” Without changing his casual tone, he asks, “Wanna put it back inside?” and holds out the plug, gemstone first.

Seung-gil is going to die. This is how it happens.

He sits up and takes the plug, and Phichit takes off his shirt and then straddles Seung-gil’s hips, facing away from him, ostensibly to make positioning the plug easier. Seung-gil hasn’t so much as moved, transfixed by the long plane of Phichit’s lean, muscled back, when Phichit takes hold of Seung-gil’s leaking cock in both of his lube-slathered hands. Seung-gil grips the plug and grits his eyes shut. The sound of Phichit working his cock is still a new one but it’s quickly becoming familiar, and the amount of lube he’s using only makes the slick noises louder and wetter.

He’s almost dizzy with arousal when Phichit removes his hand, and when he opens his eyes Phichit’s on all fours, his perfect ass perfectly framed before Seung-gil, the strap of his thong pulled over his right cheek. Seung-gil runs his free hand over the curve of it, his thumb dipping in and grazing Phichit's grasping hole.

Phichit moans and drops his head low.

“For the last few days,” Seung-gil says, lining up the plug, “nothing’s gotten me hard.”

Phichit makes a soft, inquisitive noise to show he’s listening, but the plug is halfway in now and he sounds a little breathless. His glistening fists are pale around the sheets.

“Then you—” …but what more can he say? He can’t bring himself to admit he’s so hard he’s almost worried how much it’ll hurt when he finally comes, a fear that hasn’t reared up since he was in his early teens and had no idea what to expect as normal from his own body.

“Me too,” Phichit manages, panting. “It’s only like this with you.”

After the widest point is past, the rest of the plug is sucked in, and Phichit gasps quick and sharp. Seung-gil urgently grips the backs of his thighs, but Phichit says, “I’m okay, I’m okay,” with a small smile over his shoulder. “Lie back for me?”

Seung-gil can already feel heat climbing up his chest as he reclines by a few degrees. Phichit crawls up his side and hovers over him, looking amused.

“You thought you could distract me?” he teases, kissing the tip of Seung-gil’s nose.

“I didn’t plan to,” Seung-gil says honestly. “But I’m not sorry I did.”

Phichit laughs and captures his mouth for a languid kiss, his fingertips gliding over Seung-gil’s erection and drawing out startled, affected noises. Phichit lies down next to him then, keeping a thin gap between their bodies, and devotes his full attention to Seung-gil’s chest. The challenge, Seung-gil decides, is to go at least thirty seconds without making any embarrassing n—

He lasts three.

It isn’t his fault, he thinks. Phichit’s putting a staggering amount of determined focus into playing with his nipples. Worse, he has no obvious goal in mind, and he’s dangerously creative. While sucking on one he teases the other with the blunt tip of his fingernail, then he switches so he’s blowing across the wetted tip of one while leaving the other totally ignored. By the time Phichit’s gotten to mouthing the ravaged peak of one and humming, Seung-gil is squeezing his eyes shut and warping the fabric of Phichit’s blanket in his fists, his breath wild and tinged with ragged, involuntary cries.

“I love that you’re letting me do this to you,” Phichit whispers at one point. “You have no idea what it does to me.”

Seung-gil can’t think of anything to say to that. Instead, he finds one of Phichit’s hands and locks their fingers together in a vice grip, willing Phichit to understand that he’d only ever do this with one person.

Phichit responds by taking Seung-gil’s left nipple, teased to pained arousal, in his mouth and rolling his tongue over it with such gentle pressure it forces Seung-gil to make a noise like a sob. He’s going to come any minute now, and even though he _needs_ to, he doesn’t want to. Not at all.

To make things even more critical, his cock jolts just as Phichit slides the hot, wet fabric of his thong against Seung-gil's thigh. They're so, _so_ close to rubbing off against each other, and Seung-gil isn't entirely coherent when he pants, “I want it. Please. On me. Please.” He has no idea what he’s asking for, or what English meaning he’s throwing out, but he trusts Phichit to understand him.

Phichit shudders and reaches down, pulling out his cock and lining it up alongside Seung-gil’s without any further teasing. The bolt of heat Phichit’s skin makes against his own is at once too much and absolutely perfect, and Seung-gil shivers when he realizes he’s actually rubbing his aching left nipple without realizing when he started.

Phichit glances down and when he notices this, he makes a strangled noise, jerking them off faster through the obscene mess of lube and precum. A few strokes later, Phichit cries out and buries his face in Seung-gil’s shoulder, but he hasn’t come yet. He’s still trembling everywhere and fucking into his fist alongside Seung-gil’s with desperate thrusts, on the knife's edge of orgasm and fighting it off.

Seung-gil, on the other hand, can’t take any more of this. He kisses Phichit's ear and moans his name with utter reverence. “ _Please_.”

“My—” Phichit gasps, then bites down on Seung-gil’s shoulder, his mouth open around a sob. “It’s so good, _fuck_ —” He thrusts against Seung-gil’s cock out of time with his hand’s strokes now, and Seung-gil barely gets out a whine before cum jets out of him with a slam of pained pleasure.

Phichit doesn’t stop, though, but he sounds far more frantic now. Seung-gil flinches at the raw sensitivity overcoming his still-hard cock, but he almost enjoys the pain as Phichit finishes himself off with a naked cry of urgency. His face is so honest and ruined, Seung-gil doesn't think he'd be exaggerating to say that Phichit's changed how he sees sex. The cum and sweat dribbling off Phichit’s stomach onto his own might very well be Seung-gil’s proudest accomplishment to date, and who knew anything could matter to him more than skating?

They’re equally a mess, but Seung-gil doesn’t let it stop him from pulling Phichit close and kissing the top of his sweat-matted hair. He can’t tell which of them is shaking harder.

On impulse, he touches the gemstone of the plug still thick and deep inside Phichit, and he enjoys the whimper Phichit breathes out.

“I—” _love you_ is not an appropriate thing to say right now, probably. Seung-gil knows that much from movies. So he says, “I’ve never heard you like that,” instead, pleased that he didn’t put Phichit in an uncomfortable spot emotionally, especially given the state they’re both in.

Phichit tries, “Whenever—“ but clears his throat when his voice rasps. He doesn’t sound much better when he says, half-muffled by Seung-gil’s skin, “Whenever I orgasm with the plug in, it presses on my prostate.” He kisses Seung-gil’s jaw and squeezes their linked hands. “It’s never felt like that, though. Never. Only with you.”

Seung-gil trails his fingertips over Phichit’s back, and…maybe he could say it now? Phichit’s breathless on top of his chest, coated in sweat and cum and trembling like he’ll never stop. He’s better than Seung-gil dreamed, sweeter than he could’ve imagined, and…he deserves to hear—

“I love you.”

Phichit freezes, then picks his head up, mouth open, still panting. “D-did—”

Seung-gil hears himself say, “It’s not too early to know,” and then rushes on to add, “I knew before today,” as proof of that.

He doesn’t know what else to offer, so he takes in another few seconds of Phichit staring at him, then lets his head drop back onto the mattress. Where did the pillows go? Where’s the hamster cage, for that matter? Maybe they were relocated, but whe—

“Hey.”

He stares stubbornly at the ceiling, all his courage spent. “What?”

The kiss on his chest, small and tentative, ends up being all it takes to make him look down.

Phichit…hasn’t looked at him like this before. Or anyone, hopefully.

“I love you, too,” Phichit says, in Korean. Then he grins. “I couldn’t remember how to say it, even though I’ve been practicing for weeks.”

And that…

That’s…

Phichit laughs through sniffles, and if Seung-gil’s eyes are hot and hazy, at least he’s not the only one.


	11. January 1st-2nd, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was home sick for most of the day and I managed to get this chapter finished, so as the person in charge of scheduling, I have decided that this week there are two chapters. \:D/

Afterward, the difference in their energy stores is made crushingly apparent. Phichit, well-rested and sated and downright giddy, takes a quick shower and then—while Seung-gil is yawning and fumbling his way through his turn—he changes the sheets on the bed, fries some eggs, scoops them over bowls of jasmine rice, and then feeds the hamsters in his living room.

When Seung-gil opens the door of Phichit’s bathroom for the second time, he’s struck by the rich aroma of freshly-cooked rice, and his stomach clenches with hunger. He changes into black pajama pants and a red T-shirt with 痛い！emblazoned inside a speech bubble, just to see the reaction it gets. Phichit hasn’t seen this shirt yet, and he’s pretty sure Phichit’s going to hate it even more than the one he arrived in.

He finds Phichit out on the balcony posed on his yoga mat, his legs and hips flat on the floor while he pushes his upper body into an arch with his arms. The sun is on its descent now, throwing burnt amber light over Phichit’s bare shoulders and throat. The look of him—

Seung-gil sits on the chair beside him, speechless.

Phichit peeks an eye open and shakes his head when he notices the shirt. He’s trying not to grin and failing. “What does it mean?” he asks.

“‘Ouch,’” Seung-gil says, deadpan.

Phichit laughs and rolls onto his side, cushioning his cheek on his hand. The soft cast to his expression as he looks steadily up at Seung-gil unravels him entirely.

“Hungry?” Phichit asks. “I made us a snack, but I’ll eat both bowls if you’re not.”

Seung-gil says, “I’ll eat it.” He’d like to see anyone try and eat the food Phichit made for him—even Phichit himself.

They eat on the balcony, and Seung-gil finally has the opportunity to tell Phichit his story about the Nadica staff guy who sort of hit on him.

“I’m not surprised,” Phichit says. He’s in the chair opposite Seung-gil now, licking futilely at a smear of yolk on his cheek. “Your good looks are so powerful, people can see them even through your terrible fashion choices.”

Seung-gil doesn’t respond to that, but he ducks his head to hide the tiny smile it pulls out of him. “Fashion is a waste of time,” he says. Casually throwing oil on a fire.

Rice spackles his face and Phichit smirks when he snaps his head up. “That’s for trying to start incendiary conversations,” Phichit says, cleaning his fingers with a few unnecessarily vulgar strokes of his tongue. “You like fashion when it’s on me.”

That’s true. Especially what Phichit’s wearing now—the turquoise tank top is oversized and gives ample opportunity to glimpse the skin underneath, and his cream-toned yoga shorts are skin-tight and leave Phichit’s toned thighs and calves marvelously bare.

Seung-gil decides to look up ‘incendiary’ later—Phichit’s English vocabulary is, truly, frighteningly formidable.

Once they’ve eaten, Seung-gil stands up to carry his bowl to the sink and frowns at the wave of nausea that spills through his head. His shoulder nearly hits the doorframe, his footing thrown off by the intensity of it.

Phichit catches his elbow, his eyes concerned. “Are you okay?”

Seung-gil nods, rubbing his temple. “I think I’m tired,” he admits.

Phichit slips an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek, stealing the bowl with ease. “Go lie down on my bed,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The temptation to insist he’s fine is there, as ever, but he really would prefer to be horizontal right now, and he’d rather make the choice himself than have it forced on him by whatever bizarre dizzy spell has decided to entrap him.

It’s when he sees the bed that he realizes Phichit’s changed the sheets, and when he lies down, he inhales the fresh scent greedily. Every last scrap of energy leaves him at once, and he starts nodding off to the sound of running water in the kitchen.

It’s reminiscent of his childhood, when he’d take naps in his bedroom after Min-so’s sunrise skating practices on Sundays. His mother would drive him home and make him a snack, but sometimes he’d fall asleep before she could finish it. He’d find it later, tucked into a container in the refrigerator, his mother elsewhere with the twins or at one of her clubs.

He’d eat it cold by himself, and he didn’t mind it.

He might mind, now.

•

At some point, Phichit maneuvered Seung-gil’s sleeping body without waking him, and now Seung-gil’s cheek rests flat on Phichit’s chest, his head lifting and descending with Phichit’s breaths. He’s napping in Phichit’s bed, with Phichit keeping him company. He won’t dare open his suspiciously-hot eyes until they’re less…dangerously emotive.

When he does, the room is dark, lit only by a string of golden lights taped along the outline of the room. Phichit’s on his phone, of course, his eyes fixed on the screen with the same intensity Seung-gil directs to his compulsory figures. His skin is dewy with some kind of moisturizer and his breath is cool and sweet-smelling.

Allowing himself to follow an impulse, Seung-gil nuzzles against Phichit’s neck and inhales the subtle aroma of his skin.

A hand strokes his hair. “Feel any better?”

Seung-gil nods, but in all honesty he feels a little betrayed by his body. It enjoyed the sex just as much as he did, and if it wasn’t up for it, it shouldn’t have been quite so enthusiastic.

Phichit’s fingertips massage the base of his neck. “I created chaos while you were sleeping,” he says, sounding amused. “At least our fans are collaborating, though.”

Seung-gil makes a noise, barely interested. Phichit mentioned the possibility of sex tonight if he wasn’t tired. Is that still a possibility…?

“I posted my sunset Snap later than I usually do, and then someone asked why on Twitter, and I told them I have company, and someone posted a blurry photo of you in Incheon, and now they’re all screaming in caps at me and each other.” He thumbs Seung-gil’s ear. “Told you someone saw you. You can’t blend in. You’re too beautiful.”

Seung-gil snorts.

“You are,” Phichit says, laughing. “You’re lucky we’re not publicly dating or I’d make a poll on Twitter right now. ‘Is Lee Seung-gil the most beautiful skater in the world?’ Options would be ‘yes’ and ‘OBVIOUSLY’ in all caps.”

“Skews the results,” Seung-gil mumbles against his neck in Korean.

“Hm?”

“It’s cheating,” Seung-gil says in English.

“No it isn’t,” Phichit says. He sets his phone aside and curls his arms around Seung-gil’s shoulders, rocking the two of them back in forth with a giddy sigh. “If they pick ‘yes’ they’re low-key saying ‘no’ because ‘OBVIOUSLY’ is the true answer and they’ll all pick ‘OBVIOUSLY’ anyway because _look_ at you.”

… _What?_ “Stop…English.”

“Can’t,” Phichit says. “Born too late for that.”

Seung-gil manages to keep most of his laughter stifled but a few amused breaths escape despite his best efforts.

Phichit relaxes his grip a little, but he holds on. And then…he doesn’t say anything, or seem to want Seung-gil to say anything. He just holds Seung-gil to his chest and pulls his thumb back and forth over Seung-gil’s bare arm.

It sneaks up on him.

Seung-gil finds swallowing suddenly more difficult. He doesn’t want to leave. He’s successfully avoided even the thought of a definitive departure date since he made his one-way flight reservation all those hours ago, but now, with nothing else to occupy his mind and the silence stretching on, he can’t stop his mind from ricocheting back to everything he thought he was leaving behind in Seoul.

His home is cold, suffused with landmines he keeps tripping over. He doesn’t _have_ to go back, so why would he?

But Phichit can’t host him forever.

He can’t hide in Thailand forever.

He can’t put off facing the Olympics forever.

And…whatever lies beyond that.

He has to go back to Seoul, alone, and deal with the fire he’s left to run wild over his athletic career.

“The US Skating Federation announced Leo’s pulling out of Four Continents while you were sleeping, too,” Phichit says. “He says he wants to focus on the Olympics.”

Seung-gil nods, the barest trace of movement. Without meaning to, he grips onto the closest thing to his fist, which happens to be a fold of Phichit’s tank top.

The hand massaging his neck pauses.

Seung-gil swallows again and makes an involuntary sound when he can’t.

_Don’t cry. Don’t spoil this, too._

“Seung-gil?”

“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too close to Not At All Fine to sound convincing.

Phichit doesn’t say a word. He lets Seung-gil hide his face in his neck, and Seung-gil already told him once today that he loves him, but he feels it more keenly now than ever. Or maybe it’s just overwhelming gratitude. The two feel similar sometimes.

“I know I said we could talk,” Phichit murmurs. He resumes petting Seung-gil’s hair, but the length and speed of each stroke is longer and slower now, from the crown of Seung-gil’s head down to his shoulder blades. “But I don’t want to _make_ you talk to me about it. Just…whenever you can, or…whenever you want to.” He moves his hand lower and rubs small circles on Seung-gil’s lower back. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to handle this alone. I don’t know how much I can help, but…” He lifts his head off the pillow and kisses Seung-gil’s hair. “I’ll try.”

Seung-gil clenches his eyes shut and nods. His eyelashes are damp where they’re pressed against Phichit’s skin.

It’s quiet again, for a long time afterward, and Seung-gil falls back asleep in degrees too small and spaced-apart to measure.

•

At some small hour of the morning, he extricates himself from Phichit’s arms and leaves the bedroom to use the bathroom. He brushes his teeth while he’s there, leaving the light untouched. His eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that he can see the empty sink as he passes the kitchen. The hamsters are asleep in their cage on the living room table, cuddled together in one of the clear tunnels.

Seung-gil sits with them for a while, yawning twice. Then he spends some time on the balcony, staring out at the lights of Bangkok.

He runs his palms over his face, frustrated with the dark turn his mind has taken him on. He should have told Phichit some of what’s bothering him; it’s just like what Supatra was saying. He has to try harder. Phichit won’t push him, and he shouldn’t have to.

Seung-gil wipes his face absently, and the tears dry on his wrist.

•

On the brighter side of morning, Phichit’s lips press against his forehead, and Seung-gil opens his eyes.

Phichit’s fully dressed, decked out in athletic gear with an aquamarine cap on backwards. He smooths his thumb over Seung-gil’s cheek with a smile. “Morning, beautiful,” he says. “I’m going to practice. Ciao Ciao’s coming back this morning so I’m back to regular practice tomorrow. Will you be okay here for a few hours? Do you need anything?”

Seung-gil shakes his head. Difficult to make _inner peace and a general sense of competence_ into a reasonable request that Phichit can fulfill.

“Okay.” Phichit searches his face for a second, obviously holding something back, then glances his mouth against Seung-gil’s. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen when you get hungry. I wrote the WiFi password on the whiteboard on the refrigerator.”

Seung-gil nods.

Phichit sighs, then quirks a half-hearted smile. “See you soon.” He stands up from the bed and Seung-gil fights down the urge to grab his arm and ask him to stay.

He closes his eyes before Phichit’s even left the room and by the time the front door closes, he’s already half asleep again.

•

Phichit’s diet tends to encompass a variety of food groups, but when Seung-gil opens the fridge, there’s a definite overabundance of meats. The entire second shelf is made up of packages of raw chicken, pork, and beef in various cuts.

He takes out some pork and a few bottles of sauces with labels he can’t read and spends his morning experimenting. He ends up with a dish that tastes a little peculiar, but satisfying. Maybe too much of the red bottle. Not enough herbs to cut the taste. He’s halfway through eating it before he decides to take a photo to show Phichit later.

And then, with the phone in his hand, the WiFi password glaring at him from the fridge, and hours remaining before Phichit comes back, his next move seems inevitable.

He’s still technically on vacation, so his team won’t be concerned unless he doesn’t check in tomorrow. His family, on the other hand…. How much damage control has Dae-sung done for him? Any?

He remembers with a start that his mother usually brings him leftovers from his grandfather’s party. She has a key, so she must’ve visited by now. Would she see his empty apartment and realize he’s left the country? Depending on the time, she might just assume he’s at the rink or the gym.

Sighing, he logs into Phichit’s network.

The assault of messages and notifications is swift and punishing in volume. They cascade into his phone without a single pause for over ten minutes, and Seung-gil sees multiple instances of his full name accompanied by “missing”. They seem to be headlines.

Fuck.

His team pops up, too, but the messages fly in too quickly to absorb much beyond “mild panic”.

When it’s all done, Seung-gil picks Hae-il’s name at random from his list of contacts and opens their chat.

 **YESTERDAY**  
13:43  
_Read_  
[Nice of you to flee the country without telling anyone. Grandpa’s party wasn’t _that_ bad. You weren’t even awake for most of it!]

13:47  
_Read_  
[Well, see you when you get back. I’ll just write to Phichit now to find out if you’ve died on the way there, since you won’t see this until June.]

 **TODAY**  
7:39  
_Read_  
[Hey, remember me? Your famous older brother who knows things and is occasionally helpful? You might want to contact your people and do some damage control:]

7:39  
_Read_  
[“Lee Seung-gil Missing in Action!” The 22-year-old figure skater and future Olympic contender has not been showing up to his home rink for practice. Last month, he shocked the skating community by firing longtime coach Park Min-so (55) seemingly without—]

He turns his phone off entirely and has to concentrate to pull in a full breath. He grips the edge of the table, straightens his back, and closes his eyes, trembling through the effort it takes to take enough air into his lungs.

Ten breaths later, he brings the phone to Phichit’s bedroom and buries it at the bottom of his suitcase beneath underwear and boxes of condoms.

•

He sleeps some more after that, just to kill time, but his body rejects the excess he’s trying to force on it and he wakes up only twenty-five minutes later.

The TV offers some distraction for the length of a few shows, but he can’t sit still. Nervous energy eats at his patience, so he ends up unrolling Phichit’s yoga mat and stretching for another thirty minutes.

He’s still there when the front door opens, and he has to exert some serious self-control to keep himself from ambushing Phichit like he’s been alone for months instead of hours. He stays put until Phichit enters the living room, probably following the sound of the TV.

Phichit’s greeting smile is genuine and bright, and Seung-gil is struck with the realization that he would do anything to keep this boy happy.

“How was practice?” he asks. Small talk is not a strong point of his, but he’s desperate for anything to take his mind off the wreck he’s turning his life into, and Phichit likes it, so.

Yawning, Phichit sits on the sofa and stretches his arms high over his head until his spine gives a _pop_. He looks rested and content, exuding pure joy like the source of radiance he is. His serotonin levels must be incredible to see.

“It was fun,” Phichit says, and that brings a reflexive frown out of Seung-gil. He can’t remember the last time he used “fun” as an automatic description of skating. Or anything.

If Phichit notices, he doesn’t say.

“There’s a group of kids I teach now,” he says. “Nothing official. I kind of volunteered without realizing it.” He casts his gaze impishly away, feigning innocence. “They’re always there when I’m practicing, so while Ciao Ciao was gone I just kind of played around with them, and it turned into these short, informal teaching sessions.”

Seung-gil nods. Then, remembering Supatra’s comments about communication, says, “That sounds like something you’d do.”

Phichit grins. “Ciao Ciao said that too. I can’t keep it up once he’s back, but the kids said they understand. They’re really talented. I think one or two of them might compete internationally in a few years.”

Compete. He nods, focused on the odd shape of Phichit’s couch. It’s…weirdly oblong.

He jumps at the touch of Phichit’s toe on his knee, and flinches at the soft, careful smile Phichit’s giving him. “What did you do while I was gone?” Phichit asks.

Seung-gil takes hold of his foot without thinking and massages his thumb into the arch. Phichit’s appreciative noise and happy sigh give Seung-gil something maybe resembling a dose of serotonin.

“I made some food,” he says. “I took a photo for you. Then I checked my messages. Now I’m here.” Deciding that’s sufficient, he directs his full attention to Phichit’s foot. It’s not as tense as Seung-gil was expecting.

“Your messages must have been interesting.”

Phichit’s tone makes Seung-gil glance up at him. It’s hesitant, but there’s a note of impatience there, too.

Seung-gil isn’t surprised. He wonders what it’s like, dating him. He’d have been fed up long before now, if he had Phichit’s exuberance for life.

He inhales slowly and says, “There are headlines. I left without telling anyone.” With effort, he adds, “Again.”

Phichit’s lips lift into a half-smile, probably remembering the last time Seung-gil spontaneously dropped his life in Seoul to cross the planet in search of him. It was only two months ago, after all.

“I—” He wants to say more, but what? “I don’t want to compete anymore.”

Well.

That’s…

…true.

Isn’t it…?

Phichit’s expression turns grave. “You…really?” His voice is strained, like he meant to say something else and only course-corrected at the last second.

Seung-gil shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t…” He grips Phichit’s foot in both hands, focused on inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. “I can’t breathe, recently. It’s hard to breathe. I think it’s stress. My mother and grandmother think I’m…de…depressed? I think that’s the word. That it’s the family. In the family. I don’t know. It might be…I don’t know.” He releases Phichit’s foot and stands, seized by a need to be anywhere but here, saying what he’s saying. His chest is tight, like he hasn’t breathed for a full minute.

Phichit doesn’t move to stop him, and maybe that’s why Seung-gil ends up forcing himself to sit on the sofa next to him. He rests his forehead in his hands, elbows digging sharp points into his thighs, and shoves breath after breath into and out of his lungs.

“I can’t,” he says, his voice small. “I don’t want to.”

Phichit whispers, “Are you okay with me hugging you?”

Seung-gil says, “Please,” and sniffles back the moisture gathering in his nose.

The embrace is earnest, Phichit’s arms winding tight around his torso while his face nuzzles against Seung-gil’s neck. He doesn’t speak for a long, long time, just holds on and occasionally presses kisses to Seung-gil’s sweat-prickled skin.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Seung-gil admits.

“I wouldn’t want to tell you either, if it were me,” Phichit murmurs. He splays his hand over Seung-gil’s chest and presses his fingertips over his heart. “Depression is scary. It might not be, too. You might be right. Maybe it’s stress. But…thank you for telling me. I knew something’s been wrong.”

Seung-gil swallows back a wave of emotions, none of which he can define. “I’m sorry.”

They’re quiet, but Phichit’s breathing has changed. Quicker, focused.

“Supatra told you.”

Seung-gil nods, trying to control the sudden trembling in his jaw. He finds a point on the ceiling to concentrate on and breathes as evenly as he can.

Phichit lifts his head and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I asked her not to say anything,” he says, apologetic.

“You wouldn’t have told me,” Seung-gil says. He doesn’t bother making it sound like a question. He knows Phichit well enough to know he puts all his effort into being supportive. Understanding. He wouldn’t have done anything if he thought it would make things uncomfortable between them. Even to his own detriment.

Seung-gil keeps his chin tipped up even while Phichit obviously struggles with what to say to him.

“I didn’t—” Phichit sucks in through his teeth. “I didn’t know how you’d react if I said I wanted to talk more. I didn’t want to push you. I don’t… _always_ know what to do, Seung-gil.” The last bit sounds like it cost him a lot to say.

In recognition of that, of the effort it took him, Seung-gil finds the hand covering his heart and laces their fingers together. “Me neither.” Even though it’s obvious, it isn’t easy for him to say, either.

Phichit clenches down on his hand. “I know,” he whispers. “But you’re trying. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I know you’re not used to talking a lot. I’m not upset with you, I promise.”

“But if you were, you wouldn’t tell me,” Seung-gil says. He turns his head and meets Phichit’s gaze dead on before Phichit can think of a way out of answering him honestly.

Phichit licks his lips. Caught.

Seung-gil shakes their joined hands a little, reproachful.

Phichit exhales a defeated breath. “Fine,” he says. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“I want you to,” Seung-gil says firmly. It’s the first thing he’s said that’s filled with resolution. It’s a little nostalgic, having this much confidence in what he’s saying. “You can’t do everything. We won’t last.”

Phichit winces a little and looks away, at the TV, at the hamster cage, anywhere else. He lets one arm drop from Seung-gil’s body, but he keeps a tight hold on Seung-gil’s hand. He seems lost, for once, and watching Phichit’s expression shift as he shuffles through emotions and what he wants to say reminds Seung-gil of their time in France. Back when he could barely speak to Phichit at all.

Looking at it that way…he’s already gotten a little better at this, hasn’t he?

Armed with purpose and determination, Seung-gil brings Phichit’s hand to his lips and methodically kisses each knuckle. Twice. When Phichit only blinks at him, clearly baffled, he scowls.

“I’m ‘trying,’” he says, flat.

Phichit’s lips twitch, and then his usual smile unfurls. He nudges his temple against Seung-gil’s and says, “Shut up,” with an exhaled laugh.

They sit together in this new atmosphere for a long time, Phichit dragging his thumb slowly over the back of Seung-gil’s hand and Seung-gil contentedly watching over Phichit while he has a rare moment of vulnerability. When a particularly loud commercial blares trumpets into the room, Phichit sighs and kisses the corner of Seung-gil’s mouth.

“I really do love you,” he says, meeting Seung-gil’s eyes with utter sincerity. “I didn’t just say it because you did.”

Seung-gil allows a bigger-than-tiny smile at that. “I know.”


	12. January 2nd-4th, 2018

It’s been a good several days since Seung-gil last used the app on his phone that measures his sleep quality, but despite the lengths of time he’s been sleeping, Seung-gil suspects that he hasn’t been sinking into true, restful cycles, but rather floating just beneath the surface of consciousness. It’s the kind of sleep that allows him to be awake when he normally would be, but all the while feeling like he’s carrying a dead, toxic weight inside his head.

That negative influence is probably having an effect on his emotions, and might also explain why he doesn’t want to lift his forehead from Phichit’s shoulder right now. At least this way, Phichit can’t see his face and how red he suspects it is. If he slept here, he might not have so much trouble. Not that he’s going to share that aloud.

After the air around them has calmed and they’ve rested in it for a good long time, Phichit forces Seung-gil to watch some show about an American housewife becoming a stand up comedian in the 1960s. Seung-gil never would have chosen to watch it on his own, but Phichit has been promising Guang Hong he’ll try it, so Seung-gil is strung into it just by virtue of being present in Phichit’s apartment. When it’s past time for dinner, Seung-gil grudgingly admits that he’s fine with finishing the season while they eat. There are only two episodes left, after all, and he can tell how much Phichit’s enjoying it.

By ten o’clock, Seung-gil is wrecked and so he brushes his teeth and washes his face and trudges to Phichit’s bed, where Phichit plays with Seung-gil’s hair and reorganizes his Pinterest folders as Seung-gil falls asleep.

•

The next morning begins as the last one did, with Phichit already dressed and ready to leave when he kisses Seung-gil’s forehead, but their exchange this time is markedly different.

“Morning,” Seung-gil says in mangled Thai syllables. It’s mostly to make up for his unwillingness to open his eyes for sustained amounts of time, but it feels unexpectedly good to try something outside his normal impulses for Phichit’s sake.

Phichit’s voice is warm as he says, “You look so cute,” in English. “Can I take your photo? Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Ah, fine. I have enough as it is, I guess.”

Seung-gil pries his eyes open to verify that Phichit’s only kidding, but it’s impossible to tell when Phichit grins and winks like that.

“What’re you gonna do while I’m gone?” Phichit asks. He’s braced both hands on the bed, on either side of Seung-gil’s chest, and it wouldn’t even be a challenge for Seung-gil to haul him back into his arms.

But Seung-gil has more respect for the ice and their sport to deny it Phichit, even for just one practice. “This,” he says, closing his eyes. “Maybe more yoga.”

He’s being sarcastic and Phichit probably knows it, but it doesn’t stop Phichit from making a delighted noise. “That’s a great idea! Look up Deshaun Yoga on my TV when you get up. He’s this American yoga teacher, and he’s really fun. You’ll love it.”

Giving a nod only to show that he’s understood—and not agreed to anything—Seung-gil cranes his neck and kisses one of Phichit’s forearms.

Phichit answers with another kiss to his forehead, tracing his lips down to Seung-gil’s left eyebrow and sifting the fine hairs there back and forth. When he draws back, he says, “Seriously, just one photo.”

Seung-gil closes his eyes. “No. Goodbye.” He turns onto his side and pulls the blanket over his head to punctuate his answer.

“Fine, fine,” Phichit says airily. “I’ll be back soon.” He tugs the blanket down and touches Seung-gil’s cheek with his nose, making an ostentatious show of inhaling deeply and then sighing afterward.

“Go away,” Seung-gil says without being the least bit convincing, given that he’s latching onto Phichit’s forearm.

It leads into a real, closed-mouth kiss that genuinely seems to tempt Phichit into staying, despite Seung-gil’s earlier convictions. Phichit even goes so far as to sit on the edge of the bed and frame Seung-gil’s face in his hands as if he has the whole day free and his coach isn’t going to know exactly why he’s late if he turns out to be late. They never did get to their plans of sex twice, Seung-gil reflects, and his hand develops a mind of its own, adventuring boldly up Phichit’s chest.

“No, no, nope,” Phichit says. He draws back swiftly before Seung-gil’s fingers can make contact with either one of his nipples through his shirt, his face flushed. “That’s for after practice.”

Hm. Seung-gil gives him a speaking look, one that says, _I’m going to remember you said that_ , before he releases him. He’s going to remember that all morning, in fact.

After Phichit leaves—following a much longer and more involved kiss that _does_ involve some shivering and light play with Phichit’s hardened nipples—Seung-gil puts himself in the shower. As he’s running a soapy hand up and down his erection and imagining what other toys Phichit bought for them to use, he decides that today is already off to a much more promising start than the day before.

•

His lower half wrapped in one of Phichit’s loud yellow towels, Seung-gil makes himself beef and eggs over rice for breakfast. He watches the news with the hamsters while he eats, then puts on a simple black T-shirt and loose gym pants that make a whispering sound when he walks, and pulls out Phichit’s yoga mat.

Then, just to be able to say honestly that he did, he looks up the yoga channel Phichit recommended.

Two hours later his muscles are sore and thoroughly wrung-out thanks to this insidious Californian sadist, and Phichit returns just as he’s finished thoroughly cleaning the yoga mat of all traces of sweat and perhaps a few tears. It’s resting in the sunlight over the back of a chair on the balcony, and Seung-gil has just closed the door behind him, still damp everywhere and probably not the nicest-smelling he’s ever been.

Still, he supposes he can forgive the Californian sadist a little bit when Phichit takes all of three seconds to cross the room, grab the front of Seung-gil’s soaked shirt, and surge into an eager kiss.

•

Turns out, Phichit also bought a vibrator, and it inspires some _very_ memorable noises when applied to the base of a deep-seated plug.

•

On the morning of January 4th—ostensibly the day Seung-gil is supposed to return to Seoul even though no return ticket has been purchased or discussed or even considered—Seung-gil wakes up by himself. Phichit’s arm is hot underneath his cheek, and Phichit’s fingers are loose in his hair. They fell asleep on their sides last night, Phichit’s back to Seung-gil’s chest, but in all the nights they’ve slept together so far, they have yet to wake up the same way they fell asleep. Seung-gil almost wants to set up a camera just to see how they move at night—he suspects that’s Phichit’s influence seeping into his brain.

There’s a narrow band of sunlight on Phichit’s closet door, reaching in all the way from the living room, and Seung-gil watches as it gradually travels up to the ceiling, then disappears. Phichit’s deep, even breaths stir Seung-gil’s hair, the smell of them sour but rapidly becoming familiar. It’s the latter part that keeps Seung-gil from moving. To think that he can have this mundane piece of familiarity makes him feel much older and somehow more settled. He knows the sound and smell and feel of another person asleep beneath him in the morning. He knows it _firsthand_.

Phichit wakes up by degrees. His fingers twitch, and then the rhythm of his breaths shallow out a bit. Then his inhale falters, and his chest expands with a deeper inhale that crests and releases into a drawn-out, peaceful exhale. The length of it reminds Seung-gil of the Californian sadist. _“You’re not breathing, are you? I know you’re not, because my students never breathe here, either. Deep breath with me, ready? One, two—”_

“I love having you here,” Phichit murmurs, smiling with his eyes closed. “But my arm’s asleep.”

Seung-gil says, “Okay,” and doesn’t move.

Phichit yanks his arm back with an inelegant snort of a giggle, and Seung-gil allows his head to flop onto the mattress without a fight.

He peers up at Phichit as his boyfriend sits up against the pillows and actually thrusts both arms into the air over his head to stretch out his torso and back like a cartoon character. The movement lifts the black T-shirt Phichit’s wearing and exposes his stomach, so Seung-gil enjoys the view even though he’s been able to picture Phichit’s naked body in its entirety without trouble for several weeks now.

Phichit reaches the end of his stretch with a broad yawn, one that’s full-voiced and happy-sounding. It makes Seung-gil smile a little, but he dips his head to hide his mouth inside his borrowed shirt collar before Phichit can see how much this trivial moment is affecting him. He’s mostly got it under control when Phichit burrows back under the comforter and curls up against his chest with a whine.

“I don’t want to go to practice,” he says. “My boyfriend is here.”

“He could go with you,” Seung-gil says.

In the same instant, Phichit jerks his head up to stare up at Seung-gil and Seung-gil absorbs what he just heard himself say to Phichit.

“Really?” Phichit asks. His tone is cautious, but his eyes are so wide and filled with hope.

Seung-gil traces his fingertips down Phichit’s back, enjoying the shiver it gets him. “Yes,” he says, before he can think better of it. “You said we don’t have to hide that I’m here.”

He’s okay with pretending that that’s the issue here, and he can see the moment Phichit decides to do the same.

One of Phichit’s hands curls over Seung-gil’s hip, clothed in a soft pair of Phichit’s shorts since Seung-gil is starting to run low on clean clothes to wear. “Does this mean I can post a selfie of us at the rink?” he asks, mouth sliding into an impish smile.

Seung-gil intends to say no—he’s resigned to hearing this question by now, but he’s also resolute on where he stands regarding his answer—but for some reason, he hears, “Yes,” come out of his own mouth.

Phichit can’t seem to decide how to feel, or whether or not to believe what he’s heard, and every one of the multiple expressions he tries on is criminally adorable.

It’s almost enough compensation for the selfie he’s pretty sure he absolutely can’t get out of now.

•

Seung-gil’s brief adventures onto Phichit’s balcony haven’t prepared him at all for extended time under the sun in Thailand. Within minutes a ring of dark fabric around his neck has developed, whereas Phichit looks every bit like he’s still in his air-conditioned apartment.

Naturally, Phichit seems to know exactly where he’s going, but the route they’re taking is more meandering and scenic than Seung-gil expected it to be. That’s likely not by chance.

The streets of Bangkok feel at once friendly and abrasive, alive in a way that Seoul never has felt to him. The language is louder and more chaotic, even though a few words jump out at him with meanings attached, and more than once a pair of eyes pass over him without even a shadow of recognition or interest.

That alone lifts his mood from cautious to curious.

Phichit is a conscientious guide, keeping his fingers light on the back of Seung-gil’s arm as they cross streets and whenever they change direction. He points out his favorite restaurants (seven so far), the park he and Supatra used to jog in when they were in high school, the place where stray cats congregate for donated food from the locals, and the open-air market Phichit visits sometimes for handmade clothes. He explains how it started, and the one time he tried to take up sewing so he could sell his own designs, and then how he soon realized that making clothes isn’t as easy as he expected and gave it all up completely.

When they arrive at the rink, Seung-gil can tell it’s late, and Phichit blushes a little as he seems to realize the same thing.

“Uh, I’m going to go put my stuff in the locker room,” he says. “Can you wait here?”

Seung-gil nods and finds a bench to sit on in the entry hall while Phichit dashes around the corner, his sports bag jostling wildly against his back.

A small girl is staring at him from the open doors of the rink, both hands grasping one of the frames. Her hair is cut into a bob, curling around her ears in sharp points. Someone undoubtedly spent a lot of time coiffing it, not to mention the sparkling lavender top and the violet leggings.

“Are you Phichit’s boyfriend?” she asks, loud enough to be heard across the distance from her place in the doorway to Seung-gil’s place on the bench.

He wonders how well he can lie in Thai. Strangely, he can’t remember how to say “no” at the moment. “Who are you?” he asks instead.

“Nilawan,” she says. “Are you Japanese?”

“Korean.”

“You look Japanese.”

“No I don’t.”

“A little bit.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Nilawan is in skates, but she’s not wearing guards. She has one in her hand, pressed against the doorframe like an afterthought. Her coach must not keep a sharp eye on the younger students, Seung-gil thinks, if this one not only got away but also hasn’t been properly reprimanded for the poor use of her equipment.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

He can’t decide why he keeps talking to her. She isn’t overly cheerful, maybe, and she helped him remember how to say “no” in Thai. Or perhaps it’s because she caved on the Japanese thing. “Seung-gil,” he says.

She nods. “Okay. Bye, Seung-gil.” She disappears into the rink and not ten seconds later, Seung-gil hears an adult shout, “Hey! Skate guards!”

He smirks.

“That was _adorable!_ ”

He swivels his head and finds Phichit standing at the corner, eyes shining and both hands over his mouth.

Seung-gil says, “No, it wasn’t,” as firmly as he can.

Phichit sits next to him on the bench and whips out his phone, apparently happy to let Seung-gil think whatever he wants without letting it affect his perspective.

It wasn’t cute.

At least Seung-gil is prepared for Phichit to lift his phone over their heads and tuck himself close against Seung-gil’s side. “Our first public selfie!” he announces to no one, then snaps the photo. Seung-gil barely tries to keep his eyes open, let alone pose.

Phichit checks it, nods once with a satisfied smile, opens his editing app, and starts adjusting the filters. “Want me to tag you in it?” he asks, sliding the contrast bar up.

“If you want,” Seung-gil says. He’s a little mesmerized by how deftly Phichit navigates the editing app. Within moments it looks like a professional shot, and Phichit is humming casually to himself.

“Phichit!”

Seung-gil recognizes Celestino’s voice before the man himself emerges from the rink dressed in a puffy vest and gloves. He offers Seung-gil a complex smile, one layered with more than just polite friendliness.

“Ciao Ciao!” Phichit cheers, then thrusts out his phone. “Look! I got Seung-gil to take a selfie! What do I get as a reward?”

“One less lap of the ten extra you’re going to do for being late,” Celestino says, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’ll take it.” Phichit squeezes Seung-gil’s knee and hands him his phone, his smile warm and content. “Guard this with your life.”

Seung-gil nods and stands alongside him, slipping the phone into his back pocket. He’s going to have to ask Phichit about using his washing machine later. Especially if he’s going to be staying…longer than he planned.

While Phichit’s warming up, Seung-gil stands with Celestino at the rink wall, his arms braced on the edge. The sweat soaking his shirt grows chillier and chillier against his skin, and he remembers why Min-so always wore layers to practice while he remained stripped down to T-shirts and the occasional long-sleeved shirt from start to finish.

“Have you been keeping up with the news back in your country?” Celestino asks.

Seung-gil says, “No,” and hopes Celestino won’t become the equivalent of a smartphone he can’t stuff into his suitcase and ignore.

When a few seconds go by and no such thing happens, Seung-gil allows himself a glimpse of Celestino’s face, but by all outward appearances, Celestino’s focused on Phichit. As he should be.

Seung-gil inhales and rests his chin on his forearm, allowing his mind to settle as Phichit launches into an axel across the ice.

“Stop showing off!” Celestino calls, but there’s an indulgence in his voice that catches Seung-gil off-guard. Of course he knows Phichit and his coach are much friendlier than Seung-gil was with Min-ho—Phichit features Celestino in a good number of videos posted across his social media accounts, and Celestino always seems both fond and proud of Phichit in the kiss and cry, even when Phichit’s had a disappointing skate. Especially then.

Phichit doesn’t react to Celestino’s comment right away. He seems focused on shaking out his arms and shoulders as he glides around the perimeter, but on his next pass by their section of the wall, he winks quickly at Seung-gil. Celestino projects a powerful impression of rolling his eyes without actually moving a muscle.

Unlike Min-so’s closed practices, the rink here appears to be largely shared. There are two women at the opposite end of the rink teaching several kids that include Nilawan, who seems to have lost all interest in Seung-gil. She’s beaming at Phichit now, hopping up and down on her skates like she’s confirming to herself that she can do it without losing her balance.

She never breaks her stare, even when one of her teachers calls her name and waves a hand to get her attention. She’s locked on to Phichit as if he’s pulling a trail of stars in his wake.

“Every day,” Celestino says.

Seung-gil isn’t sure who he’s talking to, so he assumes Celestino’s talking to himself and pretends he didn’t hear out of politeness.

Then Celestino clarifies, “Every day, one of those kids is scolded for staring at him or getting in the way of his practice.”

“Are they the children he’s been teaching?”

Celestino lifts his fingers from where they’re resting on his bicep as if to say _kind of_ and adds, “He showed me part of a video he took. He’s teaching them, but in a very casual sense. He plays games with them. It’s a lot of laughing and falling—even him. They already looked up to him before, but now they worship him.”

One of the boys has joined Nilawan, clapping eagerly when Phichit takes to the air for a double toe loop.

Celestino casts a sly smile down at Seung-gil. (He doesn’t have to see it to feel it.) “Maybe you understand how they feel?” he says.

Seung-gil drags his tongue over the rough, well-bitten skin of his top lip. “Maybe,” he says, which is as good as an admission.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No.” _Yes_.

He makes a mental note to ask Phichit for something warmer to wear tomorrow. If he comes back, that is.


	13. January 5th-6th, 2018

January 5th begins for Seung-gil at dawn with almond coconut smoothies on Phichit’s balcony. Out of respect for Phichit’s neighbors, they try to keep quiet, but Phichit has also decided to entertain himself by showing Seung-gil old Vine compilations featuring dogs. The novelty of watching dogs be dogs has never exactly worn off for Seung-gil, and so more than once he nearly snorts smoothie up his nose in an effort to keep it together until the end of the video.

When he’s successful, Phichit gives him a shrewd smile and switches to a compilation of “singing” huskies, which was apparently the ace up his sleeve. Seung-gil has to mash his mouth against his forearm to avoid laughing out loud.

He’s not expecting Phichit to kiss him then, and it takes a long few seconds to actually register what’s going on as a kiss. Not a peck or a particularly deep kiss, but a lingering kiss. A spontaneous show of affection—or so Seung-gil has chosen to interpret it.

Just before it ends, Seung-gil takes a taste of Phichit’s lips, curious if they taste of almond and coconut and unsurprised when they do.

Again he goes with Phichit to the rink, and again he takes a spot beside Celestino at the wall to watch, and again he and Celestino say very little to each other. He’s also wearing one of Phichit’s thick-knit black woolen scarves and the jacket he wore here from Seoul.

The only unusual comment Celestino makes is toward the end of practice, when Phichit starts a game of tag with the kids and falls dramatically onto the ice whenever one of them manages to make contact. Celestino says, “When I was still competing, my coach retired in the middle of a season,” as he tracks Phichit’s harried progress across the ice with amused indulgence. “He was very sick, and he couldn’t keep up with the pace anymore.” For the first time in over an hour, Celestino makes eye contact with him. “Sometimes it isn’t personal,” he concludes, and Seung-gil stares back at him, utterly lost.

He doesn’t explain further.

After practice, Phichit ushers Seung-gil to a tiny family-owned restaurant nearby, tucked into a side street, and Seung-gil orders roasted duck and at least seven chicken skewers for himself. Phichit orders some sort of some vegetable combination that Seung-gil’s never seen before and eats it all by himself, beaming when he offers some to Seung-gil and Seung-gil says “no, thank you” with his nose crinkled.

The staff (a woman, a man, and a younger woman) all ask if Seung-gil is Phichit’s boyfriend, and they both demur. Other questions follow that Seung-gil can’t understand but that make Phichit blush.

The two of them get home—to Phichit’s home—as the sun is going down and Phichit tugs Seung-gil into a bath and then to his bed for a pre-dinner nap. Seung-gil isn’t fooled by the pretense, and takes the initiative to kiss Phichit soundly the moment they’re under the blankets and facing each other.

They miss dinner, have to shower again, and fall asleep in each other’s arms around ten thirty.

All day, Seung-gil only thinks about skating in terms of Phichit—his programs and his form and the areas where his technical score could use some additional attention.

He doesn’t think about Seoul at all.

•

So it stands to reason—if one measured reason by the normal patterns of Seung-gil’s luck—that his first full night of profound sleep would meet a disappointing end. He wakes up like he did both days before, to Phichit’s fingers in his hair. But this time, Phichit is awake and massaging Seung-gil’s scalp in soft, idle strokes.

It should be nice, but something about it feels off, and Seung-gil can’t stop his shoulders from tensing up.

“Good morning,” Phichit says in English. He even sounds wrong. Too quiet. It being early morning doesn’t even warrant a tone like that.

Seung-gil sighs and resolves to keep his eyes closed. “What happened?” he asks.

Phichit takes a few moments, probably to think his answer through. Finally, his lips touch Seung-gil’s hair, nuzzling in deep. “I’ve been keeping some things from you,” he admits. “I wanted you to be able to relax, and I didn’t think it mattered what the media are writing about you. But Hae-il told me you’re not answering anyone’s messages, and they really need you to.”

Right, because of course Phichit is keeping up with the news coming out of Seoul. Of course he’s talking to Seung-gil’s family.

“He’s been telling me to show you since you got here,” Phichit continues, when Seung-gil clings to his silence. “I didn’t know how much you should know, though. You left to get away from all of that, and it doesn’t seem fair to ambush you with it.”

It’s kind of him. Even a little protective. And hearing him say that, Seung-gil knows he was right to come here.

Phichit understands.

Meanwhile, it’s unlikely that Hae-il has even guessed Seung-gil’s motivation behind leaving Seoul; he probably just thinks this was all some horny, romantic blip in Seung-gil’s system. Just one of the many faulty strings of code in Seung-gil’s system that helps make him so incomprehensible to others.

But even if Seung-gil explained it to him, even if he knew what to say to make Hae-il understand what it’s been like to feel nothing from a lifelong source of passion, the concept of running away from problems is as abhorrent to Hae-il as American football is to Dae-sung. Even if Hae-il knew why Seung-gil came here to escape, he would see it as cowardly.

Which it _is_ , of course, but Seung-gil isn’t exactly eager to embrace that adjective on top of the others he’s been collecting.

“Listen…Hae-il also said no one knows when you’re coming back and…you know I don’t care if you stay—I’d be happy if you stayed for a year, even—but if…if you’re really thinking about quitting, maybe you should—”

“I’m not quitting.”

Utter, unshakable conviction marks every word, but even Seung-gil himself doesn’t understand where it came from. He doesn’t care about competing. He knows that. So why…?

“Then you need to answer your team’s messages,” Phichit says. His thumb moves more gently on Seung-gil’s skin and the sensation gradually eases a few of the locked muscles in Seung-gil’s jaw. “Maybe Hae-il’s right that you should see what’s going on.”

Seung-gil isn’t sure about that. What good could it do to know what’s being said about him? He understands tabloid journalism well enough to know that no article is ever purely informational, especially when the subject is a potential Olympian from the Olympic host country. While government types and top domestic sports figures will want to portray their South Korean athletes in the kindest and most flattering lighting possible, tabloids will prioritize the creation of headlines that go against the typical portraits to attract more attention. Especially when wayward athletes like Seung-gil are hand-feeding them some truly mysterious actions and motivations.

As Phichit shifts underneath him, Seung-gil opens his eyes, and he’s caught off-guard when Phichit grabs his phone from the table where it’s presumably been doing nothing but charging.

Does that mean Phichit’s managed to be conscious all this time, completely unattached to his phone?

What has he been doing?

He can’t have just been entertaining himself just by sifting Seung-gil’s hair between his fingers, right?

Undisturbed by Seung-gil’s private bafflement, Phichit unlocks his phone and hands it over. An awful combination of concern and guilt paint shadows over his face. “Just keep in mind,” he says, “that whatever you need to do, I’m on your side.”

Seung-gil blinks at him. “I don’t want to look at your phone now,” he informs him.

Phichit acknowledges his own ominous words with a sheepish smile.

The five days Seung-gil has spent in Bangkok with Phichit feel opalescent and just shy of real. He was right to come here; he knows that. But there has always been a guaranteed ending to his newfound comfort. Even now, the relief he felt as his plane lifted off Korean soil— the relief that softened every abrasive, sharp peak in his mind and released him from stress and dissociative panic—is steadily receding.

As sharpness and uncertainty sink bitter claws into his mind, he lifts Phichit’s phone and leaves his peaceful labyrinth.

•

It’s…a lot.

Luckily (?) Phichit has organized it all for him: screen-captured images of articles, blurry photographs taken by fans, sharper photographs taken by paparazzi, tweets, Tumblr posts, Instagram posts, and a horde of miscellaneous information from myriad other sources. Even an eighth of it would be more than Seung-gil ever wants to read.

He skips ahead to January 3rd. The first piece of information is an article, and Phichit’s helpfully included the original Korean source it was translated from, presumably to give further context. It’s thoughtful, but seeing the original text only serves to make Seung-gil’s heart pound all the faster while the urge to renounce his nationality and go back to sleep grows stronger.

**Lee Seung-gil heading down an unreliable path**

The articles that follow aren’t any better.

**South Korean champion Lee Seung-gil called a “flight risk”**

**Former rinkmate says Lee was “prone to stalking” in his teens**

**Tumultuous waters ahead for coach-less figure skater Lee Seung-gil?**

The next few headlines are all from yesterday, and their tone takes a steep plunge.

**Senior member of Lee Seung-gil’s team quits**

**Lee Seung-gil said to be “collapsing under pressure”**

**Insider sheds light on Lee’s unstable childhood**

He isn’t breathing quite right, and dimly he registers Phichit’s hand working circles into his back between his shoulder blades, but then—

Then there’s Sunja.

Just…a wall of Sunja.

There must be over forty shots of her, a veritable firebreak in the onslaught of bad news. Seung-gil flips through them one by one, recognizing all of them as shots he’s taken himself. Presumably Phichit has been collecting them since they started communicating over the summer. The realization that Phichit has at least this many photos of Seung-gil’s roommate stored in his phone plays with the strings of Seung-gil’s heart.

“I thought you’d need a reprieve after all the other stuff,” Phichit says. He rests his chin on Seung-gil’s shoulder and presses his chest against Seung-gil’s back, solid and present.

Based on context, Seung-gil guesses what “reprieve” means and says, “Thank you,” as he skims back and forth through the photos, unwilling to leave this small haven filled with memories of his best friend and proof of his boyfriend's consideration.

“It’s not so bad,” Phichit says. He tucks both arms around Seung-gil’s ribcage and squeezes lightly. “It wasn’t Tae-woo, by the way. The ‘former rinkmate’. It was some girl you’ve never mentioned to me before. She just said you had a crush on someone,” here he grins, “and it was a little too intense for her.”

He nods, his face heating. He doesn’t admit that Tae-woo was his first suspect, and finding out that it wasn’t him is a bit of a surprise. With a tempest of ill will building against Seung-gil, he would have expected Tae-woo to be among the first to fuel the negativity.

Gradually, Sunja’s dopey smiles and Phichit’s quiet warmth center him enough that he can push on to today’s headlines.

**Lee to step down from Olympics?**

**Lee Seung-gil: the skater in the shadows**

**Celebrity choreographer Joelë says “no one should be worried” about Lee**

“I like him,” Phichit says, pointing to the photo of Joelë on his phone. “Read the whole thing later. He says a lot of nice things about you.”

Seung-gil nods, but the wedge in his throat keeps him from replying.

When he can, he asks, “Who quit?” It’s in one of these articles, and he’s well aware that his own phone holds the full story, but in Phichit he has a filter, and he has no qualms about using it.

“Tabitha,” Phichit says. “She’s moving back to Canada with her pregnant wife, though, so maybe it wasn’t just about you. The article makes it sound like it is, but they don’t have a statement from her or anything.”

Seung-gil nods again and flips through the remaining information, dragging a tangled weight around his heart.

The gist of it is: he was spotted leaving Seoul on New Year’s Day, and speculation spun out into hunting down those limited few in Seung-gil’s circle for comment, and when that only enabled the creation of a few articles, their strategy expanded to questioning Seung-gil’s former rinkmates and even his high school classmates.

“At least I didn’t go to university,” he says.

Phichit’s smile spreads against his skin.

Which makes him think: the only surprise in all of this is how few articles even mention Phichit. It seems like an obvious conclusion to Seung-gil—why else would he have any reason to come to Bangkok?—but the articles only seem concerned with character defamation rather than speculation about a potential boyfriend.

When he mentions this, Phichit only says, “The fans are covering that”. If that’s true, though, there’s no evidence to support it in the news haul Phichit’s archived for him.

He doesn’t ask why.

He returns the phone and closes his eyes, slumping back into Phichit’s chest with a low sigh. Phichit rearranges himself against the headboard and wriggles one leg to either side of Seung-gil’s body, snugly bracketing his hips. While Seung-gil processes, Phichit brings his arms around Seung-gil’s torso and rests his phone on Seung-gil’s chest, scrolling idly through Instagram’s suggested content.

First, the definite: he doesn’t want to go back to Seoul, and he wants to stay with Phichit.

Having those two facts grounds him, and he nods a little to confirm them for himself.

That covers what he knows, but he’s less sure of what he wants to do from this point onward. Phichit might be a lifelong commitment, but he isn’t a career, and watching him skate from the sidelines every day will start to lose its luster soon.

On an emotionless level, Seung-gil knows that participating in competitions isn’t the only way to incorporate skating into his life, but…ice dancing…hockey…teaching…choreographing…nothing that passes through his mind carries even a glimmer of interest. His passion for competition may be faded, but there’s still a _need_ to compete somewhere inside him. It’s likely that need that makes him murmur, “I don’t want to quit,” with quiet stubbornness.

Phichit’s thumb pauses mid-swipe. Within seconds, he’s turned his phone off and set it aside on the bedside table. When his arms fold around Seung-gil again, his hands are empty and warm, splayed out on Seung-gil’s stomach and chest.

He doesn’t say anything, but his fingertips ghost over Seung-gil’s borrowed shirt in what seem to be encouraging caresses.

“Do you want to pull out of Four Continents?” Phichit asks.

It’s a little over two weeks away, and both of Seung-gil’s programs felt underworked and tepid even when he was working on them with Min-so’s guidance. Now, after weeks of solo meandering practice, they’re undoubtedly worse for the wear. His confidence has taken a brutal hit as well, though he’s not comfortable admitting it outside his own mind, and his jumps will suffer all the more for it.

“Maybe,” he says.

The Olympics and Worlds are further away, but the same problems present obstacles there as well.

“You could—” Phichit inhales a wide breath and exhales in a gust that ruffles the hair tucked behind Seung-gil’s ear. “You don’t have to finish the season. You could stay here. I don’t mind, really. I’d…have to leave for competitions, but you wouldn’t have to come, and—”

“Maybe,” Seung-gil says, just to stop the flow of tempting suggestions.

It’s daunting how badly he wants to do it all. To email everyone on his team and tell them he won’t be needing anyone’s assistance until summer. Maybe. To stay in Bangkok and gradually learn the neighborhood Phichit calls home. To skate informally against Phichit without the deadlines of international competitions etched behind his eyelids in italic script. To forget he ever had a place of importance in his country—in the world—that cost him his privacy and peace of mind.

But.

He can’t do it. He can’t leave this season unfinished. If he submits to his weakness, if he allows his will to collapse now, he’ll hit rock bottom and he won’t have any reason to climb out.

“How many words have you said to me in the last fifteen minutes, do you think?” Phichit asks. His tone lifts at the end, like he’s finally realized something important.

“I don’t know,” Seung-gil admits.

“Two,” Phichit says. “And it was the same word. So…one.”

Seung-gil licks his lips and opens his eyes, craning his neck so he can see at least part of Phichit’s face. He meets his eyes a little hesitantly. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Phichit’s expression is difficult to parse. He isn’t frowning exactly, but he definitely isn’t pleased. “Seung-gil,” he says, “if you want to handle this alone, you can. It’s your career, so if you don’t ask me for advice, I won’t force it on you. But I just wondered if you even know how little you say out loud.” He presses his face against Seung-gil’s neck and adds, “Because it’s hard to know what you want sometimes,” sounding meek.

On impulse, Seung-gil covers Phichit’s right hand, the one settled on his stomach. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses the palm. He’s grateful for…

…

“Thank you for offering to share your home,” he says, stilted and grimacing at how formal it sounds. “I want to, but I shouldn’t.”

It isn’t much, but at least it’s more than two words.

Phichit laughs in rapid-fire breaths without sound. “Okay,” he says. “I understand. Are you going back to Seoul, then?”

Seung-gil almost groans, because he’s already worked through this thought process. But Phichit wasn’t in his mind, so of course he doesn’t know. “I want to stay here,” he says.

Phichit laces their fingers and brings their hands back to rest on Seung-gil’s stomach. “See,” he says, “this is good! Really good!”

“I’m not Sunja,” Seung-gil points out. “Please don’t speak to me like I’m Sunja.”

Phichit snorts through a giggle. “Fine, sorry. So you’re going to stay here, but you think you shouldn’t stay here?”

Seung-gil thinks about the phrasing, then nods. “Yes.”

“So you’re not sure what you want to do,” Phichit concludes.

“Not at all,” Seung-gil confirms.

Phichit laughs again, and Seung-gil turns his head to see how it lights up his face.

“Okay,” Phichit says. “I’ll tell Hae-il. Unless you want to.”

“I don’t,” Seung-gil says vehemently.

Phichit kisses his cheek and then their joined hands with identical loud smacking noises. “Okay then,” he says. “I hate to say it, but I’m late for practice. Like, really late. We can talk more when I get back?” He emphasizes this somewhat confusingly by tightening his thighs around Seung-gil’s hips. That…doesn’t send a message of “talking”, unless he’s utilizing some odd form of innuendo—?

In the spirit of communication, Seung-gil asks, “Can we have sex when you come back?”

Phichit’s eyes double in size, and the laughter that bursts out is raucous in its intensity. He buries his face in Seung-gil’s shoulder, shaking with it, and his teary eyelashes smear dark spots into the fabric of the green T-shirt Seung-gil is wearing. Seung-gil watches, curious. Maybe it sounded like a non-sequitur without context, and non-sequiturs seem to be quite funny to him.

It hits Seung-gil that he’s figured out a way to make Phichit laugh, and he smiles to himself with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I wanted to give this chapter the focus it needed but most of the week was wild with very little solo down time to concentrate. Things will ramp up from here. \:D/


	14. January 6, 2018 (afternoon)

Even though Seung-gil isn’t dependent on his phone the way Phichit is on his, he can admit that what he’s starting to feel is a kind of withdrawal.

The rainbow comic he follows must have been updated since he last checked, and his Thai app would be a good distraction from the unsettling fog in his head, and at the very least he could check if Dae-sung’s been courteous enough to send him a photo or two of Sunja. He even misses Instagram a little.

It’s not like he never used his account, after all. He used to post photos of Sunja and his home-cooked meals and his choreography. He never engaged with the commenters and he didn’t really bother with hashtags, but he did enjoy reading the rare comment that praised some minor technical element in his performance or complimented him on the presentation of his meals. And it was Instagram that facilitated his relationship with Phichit.

His phone didn’t always represent the worst parts of his life. But it’s easy in times of struggle to put protective walls up and forget that life was happier once.

•

He turns on his phone.

•

[Phichit.]

[!!! Whoa!]

[I know.]

[Wow. Wait. Are you on your phone or my iPad?]

[? Your iPad is locked…]

[You checked???]

[You’ve used it in front of me.]

[Oh, right. 555 Did you read anything or just open the message app? Are you okay?]

[Message app only. And map app. What’s the address of your rink?]

[Why? What’s wrong?]

[What’s the address?]

[Are you coming here??]

[Yes.]

[I just shared my location, did you get it?]

[Yes. Be there soon.]

[Seung-gil~~~~~~~ What’s going oooon?]

•

It seems there are a number of ways to get to the rink quickly, but Seung-gil doesn’t especially want to try his luck with public transportation on his own, so he walks.

He passes the park Phichit and Supatra used to jog in, and the restaurant he ate in with Phichit the other night, and the place where Phichit said he wants to get his ear pierced, and a long road filled with carts and tents and tendrils of smoke rising from piping hot street food. People bump into him here more than they would in Seoul, but the apologies offered seem more sincere than they would back home. Maybe Thai people are kinder, or maybe it’s because he’s obviously a tourist.

The weather is balmy and the bag he’s carrying is heavy, so by the time he’s halfway to the rink, the T-shirt he took from Phichit’s closet is clinging to his back. Maybe Phichit will appreciate the sweat; he certainly seemed to enjoy how it made Seung-gil look after his first attempt at sadomasochistic Californian yoga.

It’s while he’s waiting at a crosswalk that he remembers Phichit’s last message and changes screens from the map to the message app.

He studies Phichit’s question and reflects on why he didn’t feel it necessary to respond to it. He’s on his way to the rink, for one. He’ll show Phichit soon anyway. But…Phichit doesn’t know that.

He types a reply, frowning.

[I want to see you.]

He sends it and stares so long at the resulting text bubble that he doesn’t notice when the light changes, nor when it changes back again.

‘Read’.

[♡ Okay. Are you almost here?]

He smiles, surprising himself by how naturally it comes to his face now, small though it is.

[Almost.]

•

The kids have free reign of the ice when he arrives, and Phichit is by himself at the wall, in sneakers and dressed to leave. A black mask covers his mouth, and a small dent has formed between his furrowed eyebrows. He’s waiting for him, Seung-gil realizes.

He struggles to take in a breath. When he manages to force in enough to fill his lungs halfway, he presses on.

Phichit senses Seung-gil approaching long before he should and snaps his head up. He tugs the mask down, his smile already at maximum power, and waves Seung-gil over with a degree of enthusiasm Seung-gil isn’t entirely sure something this mundane deserves.

It still feels nice.

He sees the instant Phichit notices his bag, but Phichit doesn’t seem to understand why he has it. He even tilts his head as Seung-gil stops in front of him.

“What’s in there?” Phichit asks. He pockets his phone like it’s an afterthought, fixated on the bag.

Seung-gil says, “My skates,” with no idea how he wants this answer to be received.

There’s a moment of incredulity, and then Phichit’s smile goes to a sparkling power of strength Seung-gil has rarely seen from him outside of podium photos. “ _Really?_ ”

It’s just loud enough that some of the kids glance over, but two men talking to each other isn’t interesting enough to hold their attention, so they quickly carry on with whatever game they’re playing. The kids’ teacher, on the other hand, still seems curious.

No reason to hide it. No reason to pretend he’s not here. Act normal.

Preparing himself for the reaction he’s about to get, Seung-gil sets his bag on the ground and says to Phichit, “Shall we skate?”

He’s expecting an excited noise of some kind, or maybe laughter, but Phichit takes him off-guard with nothing bigger than a fondly huffed, “ _Wow_ ,” through the hands he’s cupped over his mouth.

…Followed by a bright peal of laughter and a vice-like hug that lifts Seung-gil off his feet and then swings him left and right.

He allows it.

Meanwhile, the spectacle they’re making is just loud and unusual enough to make all the kids cluster together in the center of the ice and stare at them in silence.

The teacher snaps a photo.

Then another.

Seung-gil grimaces.

•

In the many, many years he’s devoted to skating, Seung-gil has only deliberately missed practice twice: the first time it was to sit the entrance exams for university just to please his mother with an attempt at a higher education (he got in and said he didn’t), and the second time it was to travel to Europe to watch Phichit skate at the Internationaux de France.

He’s never missed practice just because he _wanted_ to before. Not for a single day, let alone the week he’s just taken. He’s always found some way to get to a rink, no matter where in the world he was or how tired he felt or how tentatively his doctor approved him to return to the ice after an injury.

Yet, with the way his head has been lately, he’s surprised he even thought to bring his skates to Thailand at all. Maybe he knew he’d feel an urge while he was in Phichit’s company. Or maybe it was just muscle memory, performing the usual motions of packing for a competition.

The moment his first blade touches the surface, though, muscles he didn’t even realize were tensed slowly release. The kids are talking quietly to each other, and Phichit is waiting patiently for him a short distance away, paying no one else any mind.

They’d laced up their boots together side by side, seated on a bench near the wall where they’d left their bags. As their fingers moved quickly and efficiently, notching their laces over the topmost hooks at nearly the same speed, Phichit kept up a steady monologue about his practice, almost bouncing in place with excess energy.

Now, as Seung-gil pushes into a glide across the ice toward Phichit, he lets drop from notice the sounds of parents arriving in groups while their children chatter and yell and ignore their teacher attempting to corral them.

Phichit’s current smile is new. Proud, maybe? But something else, too.

Seung-gil passes him and speeds up, sinking into the familiar flex of his leg, glut, and core muscles. At the first turn, he sighs through his nose.

Phichit doesn’t take long to catch up to him. Laughing, he spins around and skates backward, barely keeping pace but holding a beautiful and elegant form as always.

Seung-gil gives him a smirk and changes direction.

“ _Hey!_ ” 

They end up racing around their half the rink, leaving the kids and their teacher the other half, even though their practice appears to be technically finished. The children along with their parents and teacher cheer whenever either of them appear to pull ahead of the other.

Phichit’s naturally faster, but he’s been practicing for hours and his stamina is lower. Seung-gil’s rested, but he hasn’t been on the ice in days. It’s a pretty even match, and the two of them end up reaching the end of their limit around the same time.

“Ready to quit?” Phichit asks through a laugh as they head into another nonsensical figure eight around the center of the rink. His eyes widen like he’s realized how his offhanded question sounds.

Still, it’s as good a prompt as any for Seung-gil to say, “No. I won’t make it that easy to win against me.” He doesn’t care about the Olympics, but he does need to compete. Against Phichit. That’s enough of a goal to aim for right now, isn’t it?

It takes a moment to register, and then Phichit’s searching expression to transforms into a grin that matches the conviction building inside Seung-gil.

“Good! Me neither!”

They catch an impossible second wind then and launch into what will probably be their final lap, whether they want it to be or not. Their informal audience cheers louder, but in Seung-gil’s ears, all sound has narrowed to the cut of blades through ice and the breathless laughter of the champion beside him.

•

In the showers, Seung-gil apologizes.

Phichit blinks back at him, owl-like, as he pauses in slathering body wash over his left armpit.

“You already showered,” Seung-gil explains.

“Oh,” Phichit laughs. “It’s fine. I shower a lot anyway. Morning practice, gym, normal sweating, outside dirt…” Here he winks. “Sex.”

Seung-gil hides his grin by turning his face into the spray. As his body shows enthusiasm for this insinuated future activity, Seung-gil sends waves of gratitude into the universe that Phichit locked the door behind them.

•

They grab lunch in bits and pieces from various vendors on the walk back to Phichit’s apartment. Seung-gil’s muscles ache pleasantly, every step echoing in his quads and core. The rush of chemicals in his head has him more relaxed than he’s felt in recent memory. Part of him wants to test his good mood by trying to take a nap.

The rest of him—the majority—wants to follow up with Phichit’s implication of sex.

He thinks about holding Phichit’s hand, then squashes the idea.

To neither one’s surprise, some of the photos from the rink taken by the teacher have already made their way onto the feeds of several skating fans around the world. They’re steadily gaining traction, and Phichit keeps checking and reporting on the numbers, phone in one hand, food in the other.

Every time he does, he glances at Seung-gil with such obvious concern it’s both moving and exasperating.

“Two hundred,” Phichit says as they pass the park.

“Okay,” Seung-gil says.

“Chris retweeted this one,” Phichit says, showing the screen as Seung-gil buys another chicken skewer.

“Okay,” Seung-gil says.

In the lobby of his building, Phichit says, “This one’s gone up to four hundred and thirteen! Now fourteen. Seventeen!”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says.

Only in the elevator, when they’re finally alone, does Seung-gil say, “I’m okay.”

Phichit doesn’t seem to absorb the words, nodding as he scrolls down his Twitter feed. He hasn’t retweeted or liked any of the photos himself, so he’s hunting them down through keywords and hashtags and searching through various fan accounts.

“Phichit.”

“Mm?”

Seung-gil waits until his patient silence has soaked in and Phichit lifts his head with a curious noise.

Seung-gil points to Phichit’s phone. “I don’t want to think about the photos. I don’t care.”

The expression that steals across Phichit’s face is a mix of confusion, worry, and guilt. Which are not, as it happens, any of the reactions Seung-gil was aiming to inspire.

The doors open on Phichit’s floor. Seung-gil leaves first, heading down the hall with Phichit half a step behind.

Before Phichit can say a word, Seung-gil tries to clarify. “I told you I don’t want to date publicly.”

“I know, and I told you I’m fine with—”

“Right now.”

Phichit closes his mouth and looks at him, tentatively hopeful. “Meaning…?”

Seung-gil doesn’t say anything as Phichit unlocks his front door. The lack of a fuzzy face greeting them pangs in Seung-gil’s chest. It’s not until the door is closed behind him that Seung-gil answers.

“I think I’ll be okay with it eventually.”

Phichit doesn’t look as thrilled by this as Seung-gil thought he would be. “Okay,” Phichit says. He toes off his shoes and heads for the bathroom, where his washing machine is. “Do you want to wash your stuff now?”

Seung-gil resists the urge to hide his face in his hands and sigh. This is exactly why he avoids the subject of dating publicly. He has yet to sufficiently explain to Phichit exactly why the idea of dating publicly bothers him as much as it does, and that’s a dangerous rift to leave unattended. There’s only so long Phichit can pretend to be fine with the way things are before he gets fed up and quits altogether. No matter how many times he’s claimed to understand, that he can wait, it can’t be true.

Seung-gil follows Phichit down the hall, trying to compress what he’s thinking into short English sentences that won’t disappoint his boyfriend even more. He’s already had one packed conversation today, and he isn’t in any frame of mind to confidently navigate through another, and he would much rather cut out talking altogether and move directly to sex, but…

He has to do this, doesn’t he?

“Listen to me, please.”

It’s the last word that gets Phichit’s attention. He turns around and props his lower back on the washing machine, arms resting folded on his stomach. He’s listening, but he doesn’t look enthusiastic about doing it.

Seung-gil copies the pose. More than explaining himself, he has a question he needs answered first. “Are you unhappy keeping this a secret?” he asks.

Phichit opens his mouth, then closes it when Seung-gil gives him a severe look. He drops his head back with an impatient noise through his nose but finally, to the ceiling, says, “Yes.” Swiftly, he meets Seung-gil’s eyes again and blurts, “But I—”

“I know,” Seung-gil says. “You said you can wait. I remember. But you shouldn’t have to. You deserve to be open about your relationships. So—”

Phichit’s eyes open wider. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”

Seung-gil stares back. Where did he…? “ _No,_ ” he says, as emphatically as he can. Is there _any_ conversation in a relationship safe enough to navigate without rehearsing it beforehand?

Phichit sighs and sags against the washing machine. “Don’t _scare_ me like that!” he groans.

“I—” Seung-gil scrubs his face with both hands, then presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids. “You’re not happy keeping it a secret. I don’t want to keep it a secret either. But I don’t want…I don’t…” Inside his head, the threat has a shape, and an easily identifiable source. He knows it’s terrifying, and he even knows _why_. But somewhere on the way from thoughts to words, the meaning becomes abstract.

“What are you so afraid of?” Phichit asks. He sounds closer, and so Seung-gil isn’t surprised when Phichit’s hands curl around his triceps.

“I don’t know,” Seung-gil sighs. He stays hidden behind his hands. “I hate talking about this. I don’t know why I wanted to.”

Phichit’s arms slide low and slow around his waist. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Look, I’m sorry I kept talking about the photos. I wanted to see how you were taking it, but I couldn’t tell. I’m really sorry. I should’ve just asked.” His quiet laughter moves through Seung-gil’s hair. “I was actually trying to avoid another long conversation.”

Seung-gil leans his head on Phichit’s shoulder. “I miss the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ option.”

Phichit laughs more loudly and squeezes him in tighter. “You can always go back to that if you have to. It’s not like there are rules we have to follow, right?”

Seung-gil nods, but his mind is already drifting back to the shadow of fear in his mind.

Is it the newspapers he’s afraid of?

His fans? Phichit’s?

Whatever it is, it isn’t as obvious as the threat to his skating career. Dating is nebulous and new, as yet unexplored and thus completely unknown.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s including a lot inside those two words, and he wonders if Phichit can tell.

The stronger grip around Seung-gil’s waist implies that he can.

“Hey,” Phichit says quietly. “I’ve never dated anyone either, remember?”

“You’re doing better at it.”

“Says who?” Phichit tugs back, just far enough that he can press a kiss to the corner of Seung-gil’s mouth. “No, really,” he says, smiling. “Who? We’re not competing. We’re just…spending time together. This is what dating is for, isn’t it? Learning how to…be good at this. For each other.”

Seung-gil imagines his younger self, the one who gave up hope on ever meaning anything to Phichit. How stunned he’d feel to hear anything like that from Phichit directed at him.

Now, it suffuses him with warmth, but it doesn’t surprise him.

He takes in the small differences in Phichit’s face as his expression changes to one more relaxed and affectionate and senses the moment the air changes between them. With relief, Seung-gil leans in and kisses Phichit.

Connecting with Phichit through sex is becoming far easier than it is through words.

The effect a simple kiss has on him doesn’t seem proportional to the effort it takes.

Phichit closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. He nudges Seung-gil’s arms high around his back, then rests against the washing machine, obviously urging Seung-gil to lean on him. Hesitant, Seung-gil allows some of his weight to press into Phichit’s stomach and groin, and Phichit encourages him with a soft sound.

The kiss is slow, and Phichit’s hands wander over Seung-gil’s body without an apparent purpose, sneaking momentary glances beneath fabric and over skin before retreating and meandering elsewhere. When the novelty there has worn off, Phichit catches Seung-gil’s bottom lip between his and sucks just hard enough to hint at something a little less controlled later.

Seung-gil’s breath hitches, and Phichit responds by sliding both hands down to his ass and squeezing.

“We still have to do laundry,” Phichit whispers.

“Later,” Seung-gil says. He fits a hand between them and easily finds the shape of the erection hardening for him.

Phichit makes a half-swallowed noise and nods. “Later,” he agrees.

They end up in Phichit’s bed, shirts abandoned somewhere on the way and legs tangled as their kisses turn feverish.

“We should really spend more time doing this,” Phichit murmurs as Seung-gil’s hand brushes over the waistband of his pants.

“You said twice,” Seung-gil points out. He pulls at the waistband impatiently. “The first night.”

Phichit wriggles out of his own pants and shoves them onto the floor. “I know,” he says, then seals his mouth over Seung-gil’s neck, sucking hard enough to pull a burst of sharp pleasure. “It’s the downside to dating and not being just…like…sex friends.” He follows up with a path of kisses leading to Seung-gil’s earlobe. “Talking has to happen sometimes.”

Seung-gil says, “No more talking now,” and then closes his eyes with a sigh as Phichit follows this advice and takes Seung-gil’s earlobe gently between his teeth.

All of this has somehow become familiar. Their heart rates climbing, the obscene noises, the hot, clouding sensations. They’re getting better at this, too. They devote maybe too much time to the spots they know will feel best, though, because when Phichit’s mouth finally wraps around his cock, Seung-gil has to fight not to come on the spot.

He fists his fingers in Phichit’s hair, enjoying the gasp it gets him, and only manages to stay still through a truly miraculous amount of concentration. Phichit, meanwhile, slurps around the head and peeks up, fully aware of what he’s doing to Seung-gil and not appearing even remotely repentant.

It’s almost cruel when Phichit drags his lips off the head and allows a mouthful of saliva and precum to slide down over it. He’s been studying porn, too, it seems.

Seung-gil decides to experience this with his eyes closed from now on.

Phichit laughs and kisses the inside of his thigh. When he returns to smoothly working his mouth over Seung-gil’s erection, far more confidently than he was even two days ago, he’s single-minded and ruinous. Seung-gil can’t keep silent anymore, and he lets out increasingly desperate noises and gasps until Phichit rewards him for it.

Wet fingertips skim across the skin from his hole to his balls, and as Phichit massages them with exactly the same pressure and speed, Seung-gil starts to shake.

Phichit’s other hand keeps a tight grip on Seung-gil’s erection, the sounds of his mouth sliding full and fast over the head and shaft driving everything into a white blur of need and urgency.

Seung-gil manages to call Phichit’s name in a sharp warning, and then he watches as Phichit catches ribbons of white on his tongue and open lips, smiling and smug.

Seung-gil isn’t the only one panting, but Phichit at least sounds controlled when he says, “I think I owe you one more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \:D/ I think they’ve earned a break for a chapter or two, don’t you?


	15. January 6th, 2018 (evening)

Seung-gil once read a book for school in which the protagonist was implied to have fantasized about the person he loved, and then he agonized over what he’d done because such thoughts tarnished his love. In class, Seung-gil’s teacher elaborated on this point with doe-eyed relish. To his captive student audience, he sighed, “Young love is pure—and first love especially so. Thus, our hero is all the more determined to protect his darling from his ugly, carnal wants and pursue an honorable romance based on the foundation of innocence and chastity.”

It was one of several formative moments in Seung-gil’s life, one that gave him further inarguable proof that society operated by unusual rules he wanted no part of.

It would be amusing to hear what his teacher would say about Seung-gil lying in bed naked with his first love now, watching porn on a tablet and listening to Phichit read excerpts of blog posts describing the differences between the sex they’re seeing and what actually happens.

“I don’t know how safe _that_ is,” Phichit says, staring wide-eyed at the screen. He’s been lying on his stomach since they started watching these videos, probably so Seung-gil can’t tell how much the visuals are affecting him physically.

Seung-gil, meanwhile, has decided to sit cross-legged with his hands braced on the mattress behind him. He’s only half-hard, but it amuses him to see Phichit trying to be subtle about glancing over. Seung-gil’s erection seems to be going through a sort of arousal cycle, ranging from soft to hard and taking long pauses at various stages in between, and it’s having a mesmerizing effect on his boyfriend.

Twenty minutes ago, when they got to the point of opening a new bottle of lube and tearing open a condom packet, Phichit hesitated. He said, “I know you’ve never done this before, but you…know what to do, right?” and Seung-gil answered, “I think I’ve seen enough porn, yeah.”

Hence, the fact-checking.

Seung-gil would have resented the swiftness with which Phichit pulled away from him, set up his tablet, and threw open a search engine on his phone, if not for how efficiently he did it all while fully aroused. Such a level of discipline and concentration can only be admired.

They chose the first video at random and backed out of it two minutes in when it took an unexpectedly abusive turn. The next one appeared to be more mutually enjoyable for the actors onscreen and thus more in line with what Seung-gil and Phichit want to do themselves. However, whatever Phichit had in mind as a goal here—education or whatever—got muddled in laughing at the slang-and-expletive-riddled dialogue (Seung-gil has since decided to refrain from ever sharing how he learned that there are many definitions of the English word “plow”). Now they’re on their third video, and while the power dynamics onscreen seem to be approaching the border of heavy sadomasochism—which has Phichit utterly captivated—Seung-gil is more entertained by the variety of camera angles.

…And…

“He kind of looks like you.” Seung-gil points to the guy happily getting choked.

Phichit aims a grin at him. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I picked this one.” Then, in an almost complete non-sequitur, he adds, “I’m reading about types of lube and I think I figured out why the stains won’t come out of the sheets.”

Seung-gil raises both eyebrows at him. “Weren’t you reading about sex?”

“What do you think lube is for?”

There’s a note of defensiveness in his voice that makes Seung-gil pay more attention to him. “You don’t want to have sex?” he guesses. It would explain why they’re still watching sex and not having any.

Phichit stares at his phone, his eyes fixed on the same spot much too long for him to be reading anything, then he drags his gaze up until he makes obviously reluctant eye contact. “I…” He licks his lips. “No, I do. I just…” He sighs.

Both of the actors also sigh. With much more enthusiasm.

Phichit turns off the tablet with an annoyed scowl at the offending piece of technology.

“We sort of lost the mood for it,” Phichit says.

Which is…an odd excuse. “Mood” hasn’t been any kind of obstacle before now. If there isn’t a “mood” already, then creating one shouldn’t take much work.

Studying Phichit’s posture, Seung-gil wonders if there’s another reason Phichit’s on his stomach the way he is. His elbows are tucked in tight, and even though he’s sprawled on the mattress, his legs up to his thighs are shielded under his blanket. Is he…hiding?

“Did the porn ruin the mood?” Seung-gil asks.

“No,” Phichit says, frowning. “It was…” He groans and pokes at his phone, dark-screened where it’s resting on the bed between them. “I just read too much. All the advice was different, and this one guy had a really bad experience, and…” He grimaces and drops his face onto his forearms. “I should have asked Yuuri for tips,” he complains, muffled. “He and Viktor probably have more sex than anyone in the world.”

Seung-gil has to silently agree there. Nikiforov and Katsuki are flagrant when it comes to advertising the vitality of their sex life. At Worlds last season, Nikiforov spent every waking second off the ice dogging Katsuki’s shadow and pressing sumptuous kisses to his neck whenever he suspected anyone might be looking. Katsuki wasn’t much better—he leaned into every one and even casually snuck his palm over Nikiforov’s groin once when the cameras were aimed their way.

“That’s actually a good idea,” Phichit says to himself, picking his head up.

Then he does the single most horrifying thing Seung-gil can imagine in this context.

He _calls Katsuki_ , and Seung-gil barely has the time to realize that’s what he’s doing before Katsuki’s answering. Horrified, Seung-gil wrenches out of the camera’s view and yanks part of the blanket over his lap.

“ _Phichit!_ ”

“Oops,” Phichit says. He turns his phone slightly to the side and smiles sheepishly over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Seung-gil can’t see Katsuki’s image on the screen, but from the way he says, “ _Phichit-kun_ ,” Seung-gil can guess what his expression must look like.

“Sorry, Yuuri!” Phichit repeats, laughing. “I forgot he was naked.”

“You both are! _Why are you calling me while you’re having sex?_ ”

Nikiforov’s delighted laughter follows Katsuki’s indignant question. Then Nikiforov asks a question in Russian and Katsuki responds in kind, sounding slightly hysterical.

“We’re not having sex _yet_ ,” Phichit says.

Seung-gil covers his face. If this is anything like what Phichit would be like on social media if they were dating publicly, he has no more guilt about his reluctance.

After Phichit manages—somehow—to justify his call using only cheerful persuasion and innocuous smiles that dare Katsuki not to find him adorable and worthy of assistance, Katsuki sighs, “What do you want to know?”

Phichit says, “Thank you, Yuuri!” and then, without hesitation, “Does it hurt when you’re on the bottom?”

Nikiforov laughs again, but at least it sounds like he’s trying to muffle it.

Katsuki’s voice is a little strangled as he says, “Not always. Kind of? Well, um—anal doesn’t hurt. Fingering does.”

Phichit makes a surprised noise. “Really? Always?”

“Well, yeah,” Katsuki says with a note of confusion. “A finger is a lot harder than…um.”

“A cock,” Nikiforov says, low and sultry and like he’s nuzzling Katsuki when he says it.

“Please don’t help,” Katsuki says, “or I’m going in the other room.”

“Fingering never hurts me,” Phichit says. “Maybe it’s all the plugs I’ve been using?”

The silence on the other end of the call is unsurprising. Neither are Nikiforov’s sudden, telltale snorting noises.

To Seung-gil’s surprise, though, Katsuki only sighs. “Maybe,” he says. “For me, I just don’t like the sensation.”

“Wasn’t your first time with fingering?”

“Um.” Katsuki pauses like he’s abruptly remembered that there’s a fourth person involved in this call. Then he slowly says, “Kind of. It was in high school and, uh. His fingernail—”

“ _Agh!_ “

“Yeah. I don’t like fingers.”

Seung-gil is annoyed to discover that his once respectably half-hard erection has surrendered the fight. He nudges Phichit’s left butt cheek with his toes to remind his boyfriend of his continued existence.

Phichit reaches down with his free hand and closes his hand on Seung-gil’s ankle, stroking over the bone.

Still sullen, Seung-gil considers turning the porn back on.

“Did you really call to ask me for sex advice, Phichit-kun?”

“Mm…well…yeah.” Phichit’s tone is so small, and it hits a brand new chord in Seung-gil’s chest. “I tried looking up advice but there was so much and some of it said one thing and other stuff said different things, and I—”

“Phichit-kun, _Phichit-kun_ , wait, wait.”

Phichit makes a sad noise. “What?”

Careful to keep out of the frame, Seung-gil moves a little closer to him. He can see Katsuki’s face now, and Katsuki seems suspended between exasperation and fondness.

“I can’t believe I’m the one telling _you_ this,” Katsuki says, “but don’t overthink it.”

Phichit smiles with blatant amusement, and if Katsuki’s wry smile is any indication, he seems to be in on the joke, too. Seung-gil doesn’t get it, but he’s not particularly interested.

“Just go slow, stop if you need to, and check in with each other about what you’re doing, but it really isn’t so complicated. Learn from each other.”

Phichit sighs and nods, his eyes unfocused and elsewhere. Then he says, “Oh!” and asks, “What do you do about lube stains?”

Seung-gil rolls off the bed entirely.

“Ah—! Seung-gil, wait! Yuuri I have to go thanks bye!”

Arms lock around Seung-gil’s chest before he’s even halfway to the door, and Phichit presses his mouth to the back of Seung-gil’s shoulder with a whine.

Rolling his eyes, Seung-gil turns around and levels him with a flat glower.

“Okay, okay,” Phichit says. He kisses Seung-gil’s cheek and croons, “I’m sorry. I can look that up later.”

“Yes, you can.”

Apparently trusting Seung-gil to stay put, Phichit relaxes his grip and drops his arms around Seung-gil’s waist. “Okay,” he says. “So.” His fingertips brush the skin of Seung-gil’s lower back, painting indelible patterns there. “Back to bed?”

“For more porn?”

Phichit shakes his head and closes his eyes. Both his hands press flat on Seung-gil’s back and encourage him to come closer, and when Seung-gil does, he offers a long, deep kiss as a reward.

They’re careful to clear the bed of electronics when they return to it, and then Phichit retrieves a giant towel from the bathroom to avoid more stain issues. He shuts off the overhead light on his way back into the room and turns on the soft amber string lights instead.

Mood lighting?

Seung-gil would share how cute he thinks that is, but Phichit has his mouth occupied.

Making out is familiar and comfortable territory, and once Phichit has tugged him up to sit on his thighs, Seung-gil enjoys the feel of warmth and solid muscle under him. He rests his arms on Phichit’s shoulders and massages his neck with one hand while the other sifts into thick, soft hair.

Until now, there have been curious, unknown promises attached to making out, but this time there’s a mutually understood weight in the air. Phichit’s grip on his hips tightens every time Seung-gil makes any kind of sound, and they’re quick to close the small gap between them after only a handful of seconds.

Each kiss is a glancing touch, a tease from both sides. Phichit rubs his thumbs into the divots of Seung-gil’s hipbones, and Seung-gil grips Phichit’s hair until his breath catches.

The sound reminds Seung-gil of the rapt focus Phichit gave the last video they watched. As one of the actors had his wrists pinned to the wall over his head and his throat squeezed, there had definitely been a hunger in Phichit’s eyes that told Seung-gil two things: 1) they’re definitely watching more porn together, and 2) he’s maybe confirmed something he’s suspected about Phichit’s interest in sex that will make this feel even better.

Heart thudding in his throat, Seung-gil breaks the kiss and kisses Phichit’s ear. “You liked the last video we watched?” he whispers.

Phichit catches on immediately and swallows. “Yeah, I did,” he murmurs in Korean.

The language choice sets Seung-gil’s nerves on fire.

The next kiss is sucking tongue and shivered breaths and Phichit’s hand eagerly working Seung-gil’s firming erection.

The visuals in Seung-gil’s mind pass through taking wild shapes, from Phichit’s calves over Seung-gil’s shoulders as he fucks deep into him, to licking Phichit open for ages and then working in the largest of those jeweled plugs and leaving him filled and wanting for hours.

As Phichit plays his thumb over the bundle of nerves under the head of Seung-gil’s cock, the idea of Phichit doing those things to _him_ makes the last of his composure cave in. He takes Phichit’s erection and spreads the dribbling precum gathering at the slit down the shaft, stroking him firm and fast.

Phichit breaks the kiss with a gasp and rests his forehead on Seung-gil’s shoulder. “D-do you want to come before we…?”

Seung-gil slides his hand along Phichit’s foreskin until it’s covering the head and then drags it back down. As an afterthought he says, “No, do you?”

Phichit shakes his head. “No. How—do you want to…? _Ah!_ ”

Seung-gil takes a moment to think, enjoying Phichit’s appreciative moans and the way his stomach clenches whenever Seung-gil slows the pace of his fist around his cock.

“Either,” he decides. “Both. But either first.”

Phichit lifts his head and meets his eyes, lust drenching the air between them. “Inside me first,” he says. He squeezes his hand around the base Seung-gil’s erection and shudders. “Please.”

Nodding, Seung-gil promises to make it good for him with a long, open-mouthed kiss and a squeeze to the back of the neck.

He doesn’t have to ask Phichit what position he wants to use. The moment the kiss is broken, Phichit slides out from under Seung-gil, crawls to the center of the bed over the top of the towel, and rests his weight on his forearms.

Seung-gil licks his lips, a bolt of heat streaking through his cock at the sight of Phichit’s perfect ass in the air, his tightened balls framed between toned thighs. Purely for himself, Seung-gil runs both hands over the curve of Phichit’s cheeks and kisses the damp slope of his lower back.

It earns him wiggled hips and a nervous laugh from Phichit.

Seung-gil thinks about delivering a slap to those soft cheeks, like he’s seen in 87% of the porn he’s watched, but he doesn’t know how far Phichit’s curiosity with masochism goes, and it probably isn’t wise to test it without warning him.

_Learn from each other._

Instead, Seung-gil retrieves the bottle of silicone lube—the one Phichit just had delivered because they managed to finish in days the bottle Phichit’s been using by himself for weeks—and glances at Phichit when the sound of the cap opening makes him shudder.

He stares a little longer when he notices a drop of precum on the tip of Phichit’s cock lengthen into a line.

With more urgency, Seung-gil finds an unopened condom packet under the blanket and tears it open with his teeth. He sheathes his erection and pours more lube than he’s ever used before over the entire length of it. He doesn’t care how many plugs Phichit’s had inside himself over the last month—even the thought of hurting him is repugnant.

Fascinatingly, the slick, squelching noises of Seung-gil’s hand coating his cock has Phichit tensing even more, and the line of precum thickens as more leaks out.

“You really want this,” Seung-gil says. He doesn’t mean to sound so astonished, but the sight of Phichit so affected yanks him back to the night in Seoul when Phichit hungrily sucked him off, and then back further still to the first time Phichit smiled at him with heat and he suspected that Phichit might—someday—want him half as much as he wanted Phichit.

“You have _no_ idea,” Phichit sighs, arching his back.

Well. …Well then.

Seung-gil touches the ring of muscle between Phichit’s cheeks, and fire fills his blood when it relaxes under his thumb. He traces circles around the rim just to hear the impatience rise in Phichit’s moaning. When his own cock jerks in his fist, he guides the tip of his cock to Phichit’s entrance.

Phichit appears to be holding his breath, and his fingers are pale where they’re clenched on the blanket.

_Check in with each other._

“You’re okay?” Seung-gil asks. He smooths his free hand over Phichit’s hip.

Phichit says, “Yes,” and reaches up to briefly clasp Seung-gil’s fingers.

Pushing in requires effort. Phichit takes him in easily, but the pressure and heat around Seung-gil’s erection constantly threatens to shove him into orgasming too soon. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, half buried and throbbing, and Phichit whispers, “More,” and rocks back to impale himself deeper.

_Stop if you need to._

“Wait,” Seung-gil manages, panting. “I need—” English leaves him entirely, so he says, “I need a second,” in Korean.

Phichit shivers and buries his face in his forearm. A moment later, his other hand is working his own cock, and Seung-gil blinks.

“What, Korean does it for you?”

Phichit moans so promptly and enthusiastically Seung-gil isn’t even sure Phichit understood what he just said. Phichit pulls himself off faster, and whatever pleasure it gives him automatically makes him tighten around Seung-gil’s cock.

“ _Ah,_ fuck,” Seung-gil gasps. He grabs at Phichit’s bicep to stop him and after an awkward moment when he nearly falls over, Seung-gil pins Phichit’s hand to the bed. The angle also forces him in to the hilt.

Phichit lets out a string of what sounds like gibberish but is likely just half-pronounced, ecstatic cursing in Thai.

Which gives Seung-gil a flash of inspiration.

He pulls out slowly and fights the keening urge to thrust back in where it’s hot and tight. When he doesn’t, Phichit lets out a noise of confusion and need, but Seung-gil doesn’t let it persuade him. He has plans now.

He shoves Phichit’s hips over and rolls him onto his back. When that lands Phichit near the edge of the bed, Seung-gil pulls him back to the center by his ankle.

Phichit is staring at him, wild-eyed and baffled.

Seung-gil frames Phichit’s face and kisses him, swift and filthy. He whispers, “I want to hold you down,” in English and Phichit’s breathing picks up.

His vigorous nod is encouragement enough.

Seung-gil taps Phichit’s left calf and thankfully he doesn’t have to explain further. Phichit notches the back of his knee over Seung-gil’s shoulder and makes a soft noise when Seung-gil pauses to kiss his kneecap.

Phichit doesn’t _really_ react, though, until Seung-gil has guided both of his arms over his head and pressed both his wrists into the bed. Phichit’s chest rises with a long, trembling breath, his eyes fixed on Seung-gil’s.

There’s some emotion there, so utterly trusting, that strikes that same primal chord from earlier.

Pushing in from this angle isn’t as smooth as it was from behind, but the view is much, much better. Here, he can see Phichit’s mouth opening around silent noises. He can see Phichit’s stomach muscles tighten and release as he fights to control himself. He can see Phichit’s cock jerk, dark and wet with precum. He can see Phichit’s fingers twitch, helplessly empty with no purchase.

Once he’s filled, Phichit whimpers. He struggles a little under Seung-gil’s grip, and when Seung-gil tightens his fingers on his wrists, he closes his eyes and moans.

Seung-gil has enough fantasies to last him _the rest of his life and beyond_.

When he thinks he can move without coming, Seung-gil pulls out and slides back in. Phichit sighs, but Seung-gil wants more from him.

“I don’t know how much of this you’ll understand,” he murmurs in Korean. “But I want to be able fuck you for hours. I want to cuff you to the bed and tease you. I want to suck you while you’re plugged, and not let you come.”

It gives him a boost of courage to know that Phichit will probably only catch the occasional noun or verb, and maybe not even that much, since he isn’t exactly listening closely. He’s moaning too loud to hear most of it, anyway.

“I want to wake up with you in this bed _every day_ ,” he adds, his voice roughening, and the harder he fucks into Phichit, the faster pleasure strips him bare. “I want you to look at me all the time like you just did, like this is all you _fucking need_ and I want to you to—to—” With herculean effort, his hair sweat-slick and clinging to his face, Seung-gil manages to moan, “Say my name,” in English.

Phichit does, loud and desperate, and then again, louder and sharper. His fists are closed like iron and his leg around Seung-gil’s shoulder is a vice pulling him down closer.

The next snap of Seung-gil’s hips has molten heat piercing through him, and he’s burying his cock as deep as he can, panting as he comes into the condom.

When it’s over, the intensity of it has Seung-gil sinking back onto his heels, just for a moment’s rest. But the instant Phichit’s wrists are free, he wraps a hand around his neglected half-hard erection and twists his fingers just under the head.

As soon as Phichit starts to tighten around him again, Seung-gil pulls out, wincing, and lies down next to him. The exhaustion draining his energy isn’t quite powerful enough to stop him from wrapping one arm around Phichit’s stomach and licking over the closer nipple. He’s too tired to do much more than that, but it seems plenty appreciated.

Phichit whines low in his chest and kisses the top of Seung-gil’s head as three streams of cum jet from his cock and spill over his fingers and spatter Seung-gil’s forearm.

Seung-gil kisses the damp nipple near his cheek and nuzzles Phichit’s pectoral. Emotion sits heavy and thick in his throat, that same trust Phichit showed him very much present in his own chest.

“I love you,” Phichit murmurs into his hair. “So much.”

Seung-gil pulls him closer.

His teacher didn’t know anything about young love. Or love at all.

“I’m next,” Seung-gil murmurs.

“Okay. …Five minutes.”

“Six.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand the "or two" of "a chapter or two" continues next week. \:D/


	16. January 7th-9th, 2018

Celestino doesn’t seem surprised to see Seung-gil at the rink with his skates the next morning. Phichit is undoubtedly behind that.

He and Seung-gil arrived before the rink opened and used the benches in front to stretch their legs out. Phichit started humming something chipper and unknown to Seung-gil, and when he asked dryly if it was from a musical, Phichit rewarded his insouciance with a finger to the neck, where he knows that Seung-gil is miserably ticklish.

Celestino showed up five minutes later with iced coffee and a placid smile to two sweaty skaters smirking at each other from either side of the bench.

“Morning, Ciao Ciao!” Phichit says, his eyes still fixed on Seung-gil’s.

“Mm,” Celestino says. He passes them and tests the door, which is still locked.

Phichit’s eyes dart to catch the movement for just an instant, but Seung-gil takes his distraction as an opportunity to wheel around the bench and launch himself at Phichit with a triumphant crowing sound.

Phichit squawks. He twists around in time to land on the bench seat, his legs splayed over the arm and Seung-gil neatly tucked between them. Seung-gil dives for his sides and relishes the ensuing helpless laughter.

“CIAO CIAO HELP!”

Celestino hums, sips his coffee through a straw, and pulls out his phone.

“Interesting warm up,” is all he offers.

When Seung-gil’s had his temporary fill of Phichit’s laughter, the two of them spill off the bench and dust off, trading amused grins and feinting grabs at each other.

They’re allowed into the rink shortly thereafter, and Phichit scoops up his bag and walks alongside Celestino with unbridled energy in his stride. Seung-gil follows them more quietly, flexing both hands around the strap of his bag over his chest.

The easy rapport between Phichit and Celestino puts Seung-gil on edge for a reason whose origin he can’t trace, but it also makes him smile to think that Phichit’s natural exuberance is given such a warm reception. By the time they’re on the ice, Phichit has made Celestino laugh four times and even managed to make Seung-gil chuckle once.

Seung-gil is quick to detach from them. Phichit might have spent the morning insisting that Seung-gil is welcome to skate at the rink while he practices, but Seung-gil has no desire to interfere with Phichit’s training or Celestino’s coaching. So Seung-gil keeps to the left side of the rink, well out of the way, and he tries not to encourage Phichit when he sneakily reroutes his laps so they take him close to wherever Seung-gil happens to be. It’s cute, but it’s probably not going to endear either of them to Celestino, and Seung-gil has an odd urge to keep Phichit’s coach on neutral ground where he’s concerned.

So he concentrates on himself as much as he can. His body feels rigid despite the sex last night and the deep sleep that followed, so he takes more time than he normally would to loosen up. There’s plenty he _could_ do to keep himself occupied, if he were going to focus on his programs. But there’s only so much time he can spend on the ice without direction before his eyes are drawn back to Phichit. Of course. Many with self-restraint stronger than Seung-gil’s would stare.

Phichit is a world-class artist, after all.

Right now, he’s only playing around with snatches of his free program sans music, getting into a rhythm and shaking his body of residual tension. But it’s still beautiful. His charisma extends into every careless sweep of his arms and scoop of his hands. Every time he rolls his shoulders back and front, it looks like a fluid, masterful part of his choreography.

In a matter of minutes, Seung-gil finds himself leaning on the far wall, elbows on the ledge, just watching. A little over a month from now, he could very well remember this moment as Phichit accepts a medal on the Olympic podium.

The thought doesn’t burn the way it might’ve even a few months ago.

Seung-gil knows the competition they’re facing, of course. The media is smitten with Nikiforov and Katsuki, and so it’s impossible to avoid news regarding all aspects of their lives. Everything from their skating prowess to their blossoming romance has the public unshakably fixated on them to the point of obsession. They’re equally focused on the podium, and probably only consider each other their true competition. Plisetsky is a wild card, plenty capable of snatching gold if he wanted to but as far as Seung-gil can tell, he appears to be growing ever more focused on surpassing Nikiforov’s skill and technique rather than his accumulated number of medals. Otabek’s motivations, meanwhile, seem to stem from the same patriotic mound of earth as Phichit’s, and—

“Seung-gil!”

On the other half of the ice, Phichit’s in the middle of a Biellmann and starting to wobble, so it takes a few seconds for Seung-gil to absorb the sound of his own name in Celestino’s voice. Even once he’s heard it, he can’t mask his surprise entirely when he realizes Celestino is skating over to him.

Seung-gil frowns. Is his presence distracting for Phichit after all? If Celestino says so, he decides, he’ll leave.

He’s preparing a way to explain this quickly in English when Celestino coasts to a stop near him and says, “Have you talked to your team, Seung-gil?”

The wires in Seung-gil’s brain short out. If it were someone younger asking him this, the question would be easy to dismiss. Even if it were an adult he knew, he could probably figure out a way to brush it off.

But…Seung-gil likes him. Celestino’s guidance and encouragement and advice are big components behind Phichit becoming the person he is. And it is, he supposes, a subject that a coach would have interest in, even if the skater isn’t under his care.

“No,” Seung-gil says.

Celestino nods. Behind him, Phichit gives up on his gelatinous Biellmann with a bright laugh at himself and pushes onto sprints instead. He seems, by all appearances, not to have noticed that Celestino’s approached Seung-gil, and that ignites a fresh wave of suspicion.

“I spoke with Joelë yesterday,” Celestino says, which should come as no surprise. “He isn’t upset, but he does want to know what your plans are.” Celestino’s expression tells Seung-gil that he’s perfectly aware how little organized thought went into Seung-gil’s arrival in Thailand. “He said he’s teaching for most of the day, but if you call him, someone will pick up.”

Seung-gil doesn’t know what to say to that. What comes out is, “He isn’t my coach.”

Celestino nods, the emotion on his face balanced between amused and pitying. He folds his left arm around his chest, rests his right elbow in the crook of his left wrist, and fans his fingertips over his lips. For a long few seconds, he maintains thoughtful eye contact that Seung-gil doesn’t enjoy at all, and then Celestino moves his fingers to the side and says, “Do you want one?”

…Meaning…?

His tone of voice is calm, as if Seung-gil’s answer won’t make a difference to him either way. But it’s also weighted, like there’s more to his question than the words offered.

“Like you?” Seung-gil asks.

“Not ‘like’ me,” Celestino says. His mouth ticks up into a mild smile. “Me.”

Phichit’s skating much closer now, Seung-gil notices, but he’s still pretending to be oblivious to the conversation.

Seung-gil opens his mouth, but not even his subconscious has anything to give in response.

Celestino…Phichit’s coach. As _his_ coach?

Before the thought has even begun to permeate, Celestino taps his knuckles on the edge of the wall as if he’s stamping on a punctuation mark to end the conversation. “We can talk more later,” he says. “I’ll let you think it over.” Then he’s pushing off, back to his current skater, a skater who has his goals settled and his motivations supported in a solid foundation. A reliable skater.

Seung-gil doesn’t move from the wall, but his eyes never stop following Phichit and Celestino as they move around the ice.

•

In the hours following Phichit’s practice, Phichit doesn’t say anything about Celestino, and neither does Seung-gil. He knows Phichit is behind Celestino’s suggestion, and he won’t give Phichit the satisfaction of bringing it up until he knows how he feels about it.

They eat lunch on Phichit’s balcony, and Seung-gil not only allows Phichit to take a photo of their rice bowls, he also somewhat boldly doesn’t move his folded arms out of the way of the camera’s view. He waits a few minutes until Phichit is immersed in browsing some music group’s YouTube channel, recommended to him by Leo de la Iglesia, and then Seung-gil checks the comments on the photo.

[Are those Seung-gil’s arms…?!]

[i can’t telllllllll just by his arrrrms uuuugh why doesn’t seunggil wear jewelry?????]

[It’s probably just Supatra guys omg.]

[no the skin’s too pale to be Supatra. I know he has other friends but she’s the only one he’s ever photographed eating at his apartment…? So………that means………………!]

[…W O W. It’s the sun making the skin look that light…the reaching in here omg…]

[seungchuchuuuuu!!!]

Seung-gil backs out of the comment section, frowning. What makes strangers so interested in the private lives of others? And what if these people knew what they wanted to know? What would they do with the information? Would it appease them simply to have confirmation that Seung-gil is dating Phichit, or would they demand more?

Just how much water has built up behind the dam?

That so many people collectively and immediately assume Seung-gil is the one in the photo also surprises him until he remembers Phichit telling him that he was spotted on the plane coming to Thailand. Not to mention the selfie Phichit took of them the other day.

The comments on _that_ must be even wilder with speculative fervor.

Seung-gil peeks up at Phichit, but he's transfixed on his phone while slowly guiding a spoonful of sauce-marinated rice to his mouth.

In the main gallery of Phichit’s account, there are more rink photos and recordings than anything else. Dynamic shots of Phichit in mid-jump, playfully dancing to music during breaks, falling and sprawling on the ice with comic exaggeration. Selfies with Celestino, the kids and their teacher, Supatra, his parents, a litter of puppies, a few throwback photos of himself with Katsuki in Detroit—but…

He doesn’t see himself.

Something warm touches his temple, and it’s just unexpected enough that Seung-gil flinches away from it. Phichit, to his credit, doesn’t look offended. He only smiles a little and rests his head on Seung-gil’s shoulder, peering directly at Seung-gil’s cheek.

“Instastalking again?”

Seung-gil rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. He got a beautiful boyfriend out of Instastalking—he’s not in the least bit ashamed of it.

“You didn’t upload the photo of us,” Seung-gil says.

Phichit sits down beside Seung-gil on the edge of his cushion and sneaks an arm around Seung-gil’s waist. “Nope,” he says. He pokes one of the photos on Seung-gil’s phone and makes a face. “I should’ve gotten more likes for this. There’re _puppies!_ ”

“Why?”

Phichit sits upright and stretches his arms over his head, his face rested and thoughtful. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out, “honestly? I didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

Phichit grins and darts in to kiss his cheek. “Because I didn’t want to,” he says. “You look too handsome in it.”

It isn’t the reason—at least not the full reason—but Seung-gil lets it go. He rubs his wrist over the spot Phichit kissed, smiling faintly. “Fine,” he says. “You can, if you want.”

“I know.” Phichit’s eyes roam across his face for a long few moments, then settle on Seung-gil’s forehead. A moment later, there’s a kiss pressed there, followed by another to his temple, the bridge of his nose, his chin, and—

Seung-gil catches Phichit's jaw and touches their lips firmly together, and Phichit laughs with such delight that Seung-gil doesn’t mind at all that he’s been played.

•

In his competitive years, Celestino’s highest medal earned was a gold at Worlds in 1990 when he was nineteen. Judges and fans alike often underestimated him next to more intense and theatrical skaters like Elias Braunstein and Rasha Alawi, but Celestino tended to focus on step sequence, which most of his contemporaries were frankly weak in by comparison. When he retired in 2000, Celestino segued directly into coaching. He married an American in 2003, moved to Michigan in 2005, and by 2006 he’d established his professional presence in Detroit.

Within the current stable of coaches, Celestino is probably one of the kindest. His style works magic for Phichit, who came to the sport with enthusiasm and a robust supply of self-motivation. As far as Seung-gil knows, Phichit has never once felt lost on the ice. How could he, when he has a guiding star inside his heart? He knows who he is, and what he loves, and Seung-gil envies that. Phichit would do well under most coaches, even one of the less-than-coddling ones like Yakov, but in Celestino he has not only a mentor but a companion and someone very near family.

All of that makes Phichit the ideal skater, in Seung-gil’s opinion. Able to balance attention to his score with a sense of presentation and artistry and powered all the while by determination and passion.

Seung-gil, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single scrap of motivation left. All he has is fear of letting go of the only rope he’s ever climbed.

The largest frustration, thinking of it all, is that Min-so’s style once suited him fine. Her brevity and blunt delivery gave every practice an efficiency he longs for now. She saw the weaknesses he couldn’t and immediately brought them to his attention. Tae-woo always hated that aspect of her coaching and often cringed when criticized, but Jung-oh and Seung-gil recognized the need for an outside perspective, especially one from a world-renowned athlete.

Why he thought he could do this on his own back in November is beyond him now.

While Phichit gets ready to sleep, Seung-gil does some reading on Celestino’s past skaters. Katsuki of course was one of them, and he notoriously dropped Celestino as a coach after an underwhelming performance in his free skate at the 2015 GPF. Celestino also coached the loud Canadian, as well as a Spanish skater whose name and face Seung-gil doesn’t recognize. After leaving Celestino, the Canadian ended up going to his ice dancer parents for coaching, and the Spaniard outright retired at the age of twenty-nine.

The Canadian has never commented on Celestino, and the Spaniard had typical comments of gratitude to share, but Katsuki… Seung-gil finds a quotation from Katsuki on a British news site that strikes at his core. Someone asked Katsuki to compare his experiences under Nikiforov versus Celestino, and Katsuki told the assembled press, “Coach Cialdini gave me every opportunity to show my best side, and it was my failing—not his—that I couldn’t.”

 _It was my failing_.

_My failing._

—Not…

…hers.

Katsuki went on to say, “What I’ve been able to accomplish with Viktor has nothing to do with Coach Cialdini. I’m probably the only skater in the world who could work with Viktor but not Coach Cialdini.”

The following four paragraphs attempt to tease apart whether Katsuki was coyly boasting about his romantic relationship with Nikiforov or if he was just absently choosing his words. There’s no video attached to the article and Seung-gil wouldn’t normally care to see one, but…he finds himself curious.

He might have more in common with Katsuki than he ever would have imagined.

When Phichit's damp towel hits him in the face, Seung-gil quickly puts his phone aside.

•

Four hours later, Phichit is asleep and Seung-gil is not.

It probably isn’t beneficial, Seung-gil muses, that he’s becoming accustomed to the helpless sensation of boredom and frustration. As lovely as Phichit looks, restful and gorgeous and snuggled close against Seung-gil’s chest, it really isn’t all that entertaining to look at a sleeping person after the first hour or so.

The more his mind processes his brief encounter with Celestino, the more exhausted Seung-gil feels.

Celestino might be willing to coach him, but who’s to say he knows what he’s getting into? Joelë and Phichit might have told him some of what they know, but there’s no way Celestino could have realistic expectations just based on secondhand information.

But if Seung-gil wants to compete—and he _does_ —

In desperation, Seung-gil runs math equations through his head to calm down.

He’s working through a particularly complex differential equation when Phichit inhales sharply and nuzzles close to him with a whine.

“Why are you awake?” Phichit groans.

Seung-gil opens his eyes, flummoxed. “Why are you?” he asks in Korean, too tired to bother with English.

“What? Oh. I don’t know. You woke me up.”

Seung-gil blinks. He hasn’t moved in at least an hour.

Phichit butts his forehead against Seung-gil’s chest. “You’re stressed out,” he murmurs. “I guess I can tell?” He doesn’t sound thrilled about his new superpower.

Seung-gil presses his thumb against Phichit’s temple and massages gently.

Phichit sighs and turns his head to kiss Seung-gil’s forearm in thanks.

“Sorry,” Seung-gil says. “I’m thinking.”

“About Ciao Ciao?”

Seung-gil says, “Yes,” and then considers his next words for half a second. “You told him to ask me?”

He watches as Phichit processes the words of the second language he isn’t as strong in, and then a touch of a smile lifts Phichit’s mouth. “No,” he says, still in English. “He asked _me_ if it was a good idea to ask _you_.”

And that’s…

Unusual.

“Why?” Seung-gil asks.

Phichit wriggles a little until he’s got both arms around Seung-gil’s torso and his face planted firmly against Seung-gil’s throat. A little bemused, Seung-gil holds him there. “Because,” Phichit yawns, “he thinks you’re a Yuuri he can connect with.”

“ _What?_ What does that mean?”

Phichit lets out a noise that implies he’s annoyed with himself and shakes his head. “Too sleepy to understand Korean,” he says. “Ask me again in the morning. Good night.”

Despite this, though, he’s motionless for barely four seconds before he’s making some definitive moves with his hips.

“I thought you wanted to sleep,” Seung-gil says dryly. In English.

“You’re hard,” Phichit says. “I’m helping _you_.”

Seung-gil snorts. “I’m hard _now_. I wasn’t a few—”

Phichit kisses him firmly and only pulls back to whisper, “Shh,” and change the angle slightly.

It’s difficult after that to concentrate on Celestino with Phichit sucking on his throat and stroking the inside of his thigh, so Seung-gil dismisses the subject at last and gives himself over entirely to Phichit.

•

Despite some reservations, he goes back to the rink with Phichit again the next day. Celestino glances at him once or twice, curiosity in his eyes, but Seung-gil sticks to his side of the ice and Celestino allows him the space and time to himself.

After practice, he and Phichit board the BTS and stand by the doors as the train carries them far out of the city. Phichit leads Seung-gil into a residential neighborhood infused with green and quiet, and only when they’re on a street without people anywhere in sight does Phichit slyly reach for his hand and make a little show of lacing their fingers together.

“I come here all the time,” Phichit says, swinging their arms. “I like the atmosphere.”

They walk a good ten minutes without seeing a single shop or public establishment of any kind. Instead, vibrant trees and plants sprout seemingly at random in all directions, and the large houses they pass stand out against the afternoon sky in a variety of shades.

“I don’t usually leave the city,” Seung-gil says, though this still probably counts as the city. A suburb, maybe. Still, escaping the density of human life feels…more liberating than he thought it would.

While he’s wondering how to express this, Phichit clears his throat.

“You know, um. I was thinking of taking you to one of our national parks tomorrow, if you want. It’s a day off for me, so I thought a hike would be fun. We don’t have to, you know. I just haven’t gone in a while, and—” His head is tilted back, his eyes on the tufted clouds above, and only the speed of his words gives away his nervousness.

Seung-gil cuts him off with a soft, “Okay,” and a squeeze to his hand.

Phichit lets out a tiny exhale and gives him a wry smile. “Really?”

Seung-gil confirms they’re well and truly alone, then kisses the tip of his nose. “Yes.”

It’s incredible, really, how little effort it takes to make Phichit’s eyes light up.

•

“Seung-gil?”

“Hello, J.”

“Hey, hello. Uh, hey, hang on a sec, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Sorry, I’m just finishing up with a client. Let me call you back in ten?”

“Okay.”

Seung-gil ends the call and rests his chin on his forearm. From Phichit’s apartment, Bangkok’s skyline resembles that of any other major city. Skyscrapers of reflected blue and gray, tall and jagged against a fiery spread of orange and amber clouds.

Behind him, Phichit screams with laughter, and Seung-gil looks at him over his shoulder with fondness. When they arrived back at Phichit's apartment, Phichit, Guang Hong, and Leo decided to play some cooking game, and now they’re all yelling at each other about it over FaceTime. The game’s mechanics seem to require a great deal of cooperation and discussion, and it seemed like a good moment for Seung-gil to make his phone call to Joelë out on the balcony.

When Joelë’s photo appears on his screen, Seung-gil answers with one deft tap of his thumb. He brings his phone to his ear and says, “Hello, J."

“Hey, so I’ve got a few minutes before my next client. What’s up?”

Seung-gil licks his lips, building the words gradually in his head to mean exactly what he wants to say. No more or less.

“I’m staying in Bangkok.”

“All right. Good.”

“…Good?”

“Yes,” Joelë says. “Listen. I don’t know if you read any of my messages…?”

“No.” Then, uncomfortably, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Anyway, what I said in them was basically that no one should be making you feel like you have to do this any particular way. You have to do what’s best for you and you alone. If you’re happy in Bangkok, you should stay. If you want to take the season off, you should. Don’t sacrifice your mental health for anything, Seung-gil. It’s too precious.”

“But…”

“Are you? Happy?”

Seung-gil's eyes heat, and he doesn’t look back at Phichit. “Yes. I think so.”

“Okay. So look, here’s what we do now. You’re listening?”

“Yes.”

“If you still want your team, we’re here. Tabitha had to step down for personal reasons—none of which had to do with you—but Eun-ae, Tess, and I understand your situation, and Celestino told us he’s offered to take over as coach. Are you giving that any thought?”

Seung-gil says, “I am,” and surprises himself with the ease with which he says it. “But I haven’t decided.”

“That’s fine. Are you going to compete this month?”

Seung-gil forces himself to say, “No,” and closes his eyes. “I need more time.”

“So I can tell Eun-ae to pull you out of Four Continents?”

He rubs his forehead. He thinks of taking it back. Of flying out to the competition in two weeks, and— “Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Listen to me: that’s _fine_.”

“Mm.”

“Seung-gil.”

“Yes.”

“It’s _fine_. I’m proud of you, hear me?”

Seung-gil takes a short breath and covers his mouth.

“Are you still considering the Olympics?”

“Yes,” Seung-gil says, muffled against his fingers.

“Okay. Look, okay, my next client is here, and I have to get going. Are you all right? Are you with your—um. Are you with anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay. I’ll call you once I’ve spoken to Eun-ae.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, Seung-gil. Take care.”

Seung-gil's hand shakes as he pockets his phone, and then he allows the railing to take his full weight as he presses his face into his forearms. The sun has gone entirely now, and the air is chillier, but Seung-gil can barely feel it through the wash of relief flooding every nook in his body.

Decidedly unsteady, he pushes the screen open and shuts the glass door behind him. His field of vision narrows to one point, and it only takes him four steps to get to the sofa, where he tucks himself against Phichit’s side.

“No, the cakes!” Leo cries. “Phichit, what happened?”

“Phichit! Phichit?!”

Phichit sets his controller down on the arm of the sofa without answering them. Frenzied voices and music from Phichit's phone and television clash and fill the room, and then something happens in the game that results in despondent music and both Guang Hong and Leo squawking in anguish.

Seung-gil ignores it, and Phichit must, too. His arms close around Seung-gil’s shoulders and his chin rests on top of his head.

“I’ve got you,” Phichit whispers, and Seung-gil gratefully presses closer to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I'm so sorry this is late. April really drained me, and so I took a couple of extra days to give this chapter the attention I wanted it to have. Thank you for your patience, guys, and the next chapter should arrive on schedule. ♡


	17. January 10-11, 2018

They set out the next morning at dawn, which Seung-gil thinks is ambitious considering how late they went to sleep. When he mentions this through a yawn, Phichit claims the sex they had will keep them energized, and Seung-gil is just amused enough to keep his doubts to himself.

They stop by the garage of the apartment complex where Phichit’s parents live, and Phichit leads him to a glistening, cherry red SUV that belongs to his mother.

“She won’t mind?” Seung-gil asks as he pulls open the passenger’s side door.

Phichit doesn’t seem to understand why he’s asking for a second, paused with one leg into the car, and then his face clears with a bright laugh. “I already texted her. I take her car all the time,” he says. “My dad’s is covered in fast food wrappers.” He buckles himself in with a wry noise. “I think he does it on purpose so I don’t take his.”

Seung-gil tries to imagine Hae-il or Dae-sung dropping by to take their mother’s car and wrinkles his nose.

Phichit connects his phone to the car with a few quick swipes in his settings menu, and Thai pop music comes barreling out of the speakers. Despite the noise, Seung-gil contorts his body against the door and quickly dozes off. When he comes back to the world, the volume of the music is lower and the car is wobbling its way down an unpaved road.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Phichit grins over at him, even perkier than he was earlier. “Two hours,” he says. “I think you needed it.”

“You’re not tired?”

“Not as much,” Phichit says. “I like getting the most out of my days off anyway.”

Outstretched branches swipe the sides of the car as it lumbers along, and Seung-gil pulls back from his window with a wary frown. Phichit’s driving is a great deal more cautious than Supatra’s, but then again, it’s difficult to know whether he drives this way normally or only while he has other people in the car.

There isn’t another car in sight either in front or behind, just a cacophony of trees and varying shades of thick green undergrowth. Seung-gil reflexively reaches into the back for the insect repellant.

They park in a clearing of packed soil alongside several other cars and tug their backpacks from the trunk. Phichit’s is actually designed for hiking, whereas Seung-gil’s is the day-to-day functional knapsack he brought with him on the plane. The combined weight of his two bottles of water, protein-laden snacks in plastic bags, insect repellent, sunblock, extra T-shirt and pair of shorts, and emergency umbrella doesn’t bother him in the least as he slips both arms through the straps. Phichit has all the same items in his, plus disinfectant and a few maps of the mountain he printed out last night, but he moves as easily as if he were carrying nothing, heading toward the path with a bright smile and a bounce in his step.

Seung-gil follows, still drowsy but waking up more and more in fractions as the path’s incline demands more effort and focus from him. He can’t remember the last time he went hiking for fun, if he ever did. His parents were quite active in their youth, but by the time Seung-gil was born the outings had diminished in variety to trips to the cinema and dinners at nice restaurants.

Sunlight dapples the ground through the trees, and as they walk Phichit arches into a stretch with a warm noise, like a contented house cat. Barely ten minutes into the hike he strips off his jersey and wraps the arms around his waist, baring his arms and shoulders.

“Isn’t that out of fashion?” Seung-gil asks. Not that he’d normally know, but after years of criticism from his rinkmates and fans for doing the same thing, he knows it’s not popular in his country at least.

“Viktor brought it back,” Phichit says over his shoulder.

Ah.

“For the world?”

“Mm, kinda! Fans made collages of him wearing sweaters and jerseys with the arms tied around his waist and the hashtag trended. Then he basically tweeted, ‘This never should’ve gone out of fashion in the first place! #ninetieschild’ and people just sort of picked it up again. Spread to other athletes and then some singers and actors did it and now it’s generally seen as…well. If you do it with a huge sweater it’s not as acceptable, but say you’re wearing—”

Fashion is incomprehensible.

Seung-gil allows Phichit to continue his lecture, half listening to the words and half admiring the enthusiasm in his voice. Phichit always speaks like this whether it’s about skating, his hamsters, music, or pretty much anything he loves.

Underneath and surrounding Phichit’s voice, the noises of the mountain build in strength and presence. There’s a stream nearby trickling over rocks, and a collection of birds calling merrily to each other in hoarse squawks. Something small and fast darts up a tree, claws raking the bark as it climbs, and a strong burst of wind ruffles the leaves all around them.

Seung-gil inhales so deeply it fills his lungs and his eyes close involuntarily. He holds the air in, enjoying how it expands his lungs, and then lets it out through his mouth in a gust.

Phichit’s paused a few strides ahead, looking back at him with fondness.

A little self-conscious, Seung-gil asks, “What’s that face for?”

Phichit shakes his head, smiling, and continues on ahead.

The next hour passes with Phichit talking as if he can cover every subject he’s ever had interest in if he tries hard enough. Seung-gil chips in whenever Phichit seems to want a response, but otherwise he just walks and enjoys the free entertainment.

They frequently encounter other hikers, and Phichit usually winds up stopping to chat with them in rapid-fire Thai, beaming and waving as the hikers continue on, and then offering a brief translation to Seung-gil. That’s also entertaining.

A few more winding turns and conversations with people who promise a fantastic view up ahead and they’re standing at a break in the trees looking out at a clump of other mountain slopes all stamped together in one united shape against a deep, cloudless sky.

Phichit takes his phone out for the thousandth time and photographs the view in bursts. Then, predictably, he holds his arm out to Seung-gil and grins. “Mountain selfie!”

“Are you going to post this one?” Seung-gil asks as he takes his place next to Phichit.

“This one, yes,” Phichit says. He drops his arm over Seung-gil’s shoulders and presses his cheek against Seung-gil’s. “Ready?”

Seung-gil purses his lips throughout the next six shots, a stark contrast to the giddy smile beside him, but Phichit doesn’t seem to mind.

“We could take a break here for a bit,” Phichit says, eyes fixed on his phone.

“Mm.”

They sit on two flat rocks, shaded by overhanging trees, and while Phichit merrily edits their photo Seung-gil pulls out his bag of snacks and munches quietly on cashews and almonds. Idly, he estimates the number of cashews in his bag and wonders if Phichit will let him look at his bag to guess who has more.

“I want to tell you about this project I’m working on.”

Seung-gil blinks out of the field of numbers in his mind and picks apart the subtleties in Phichit’s expression. He seems nervous…but…happy? He’s still occupied with his phone, but it feels to Seung-gil like more of Phichit’s attention is on him than it seems to be.

And then the phone is pocketed.

When Phichit meets his eyes almost shyly, Seung-gil blinks back at him. “I haven’t told many people about this,” Phichit says. “I’m not even sure exactly _when_ I want to do it, but…I want to do my own ice show.”

Seung-gil absorbs that, thinks it over for a few seconds, then nods. It’s an easy thing to envision, now that the thought’s taken root. Enthusiastic music, vivid costumes, lively programs, cheering crowds. Phichit would have no trouble attracting the likes of Katsuki to participate, either. Of course, Phichit’s still fairly young, but Nikiforov had his first ice show held in his honor at twenty-four. Phichit’s only a few years from that, and if he medals at the Olympics surely the Thai government will give him pretty much anything he wants.

It sounds like a simple project to pull off, so why does Phichit still look so apprehensive?

“What else?” Seung-gil asks.

From the tilt of Phichit’s head that that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“It’s just,” Phichit says, “I wanted to—” He scrunches his nose and rubs both hands through his hair with a groan. “Wait, wait. Just…give me a second?”

Seung-gil nods and takes a pair of cashews from the bag. Over Phichit’s shoulder, an assortment of gray clouds have begun to seep over the mountaintops, and Seung-gil makes a note to mention this as soon as Phichit’s done telling him…whatever he’s gathering courage to say.

“Would you,” Phichit says, then cuts himself off with a dissatisfied face. “No. Um. I was thinking maybe if you wanted—”

Seung-gil says, “Maybe you need another second,” and chomps down on an almond.

Phichit seems hurt for a second, then he catches on to the very small note of humor in Seung-gil’s voice and throws the cap of his water bottle at Seung-gil’s chest, grinning unrepentantly. “Hey,” he says.

Seung-gil picks up the cap, dusts it off, and pockets it without changing expression.

“Hey!”

“If you finish,” Seung-gil says, “I’ll give it back.”

Phichit’s mouth drops open in a disbelieving smile. “Is this you being playful?” he teases.

“No,” Seung-gil says, hiding all amusement as well as he can.

“Fine,” Phichit says with exaggerated exasperation. He downs a quarter of his water, then swallows and says with careful enunciation, “Seung-gil, would you think about taking part in my ice show?”

Seung-gil takes that in and frowns. As what? Stage manager? “You mean…to skate…?”

Phichit nods, lighting up more now that the question’s out in the open. “Yes! I’ve been thinking about it for years! See, see, listen. My mom took me to a lot of ice shows when I was little, but we always had to travel overseas to see them! _We_ could afford to do that, but there are so many here who can’t, or their parents can’t leave work long enough to travel. But if I can hold a show _in Bangkok_ then think of all the kids who’d find their love of skating!”

“I understand,” Seung-gil says. “But why me?” He’s an objectively odd choice for the kind of show Phichit’s probably imagining. “It’s because we’re dating?”

“Well, I mean…we met at one, so…” Phichit’s smile turns a few shades sweeter. “I’ve always thought about including you, even before we got to know each other. It just seemed right.” He bridges the gap between them and kisses Seung-gil’s nose.

Still processing, Seung-gil grazes Phichit’s jawline with his fingertips.

The world of competition he lives and thrives in is familiar. It’s a somewhat jumbled cycle of training, competing, resting, and a variety of minutiae that interests him even less than satisfying his sponsors. It’s also an unusual life, maybe, compared to the steady routine of Dae-sung’s job or the public chaos of Hae-il’s, but it’s familiar. It’s even comfortable, when he isn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

Ice shows, though, have never interested him. The other skaters seem to do it for fun, or money, or maybe exposure. He’s never asked any of them, to be fair, but what other appeal could there be to an event without calculated results?

He almost changes the subject, but the way Phichit is looking at him—so, so hopefully—changes the words on their way to his mouth.

“If that’s what you want,” he says.

Phichit’s smile widens, and the next kiss is slow and feels like a promise sealed.

Maybe it won’t be so bad with Phichit there.

“Why are you asking me here?” Seung-gil asks. On cue, a bird nearby lets out a garbled squawk.

Phichit sits on his rock, occupying what little space remains beside Seung-gil.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Phichit admits. “I really just thought the hike would be good for both of us to do something active outside the rink or the gym.” He bumps Seung-gil’s shoulder with his, smiling. “I only thought to ask you because you were humming ‘Terra Incognita’ in your sleep while I was driving and it reminded me.”

Seung-gil stares back at him, incredulous.

Phichit nods, gleeful. “You were. I pulled over and recorded some of it if you don’t believe me.”

“You’re not posting it.”

Phichit pulls an innocent face and inches his hand toward his pocket.

“ _Phichit Chulanont_.”

“But it’s _cute!_ ”

He doesn’t end up posting it, but it takes some rather creative sexual promises from Seung-gil to talk him down, because that’s the new normal in Seung-gil’s life.

•

They arrive back at Phichit’s apartment long after sunset and, following hamster care and showers and abbreviated teeth and skin care routines, fall into bed together and deep into sleep.

The early hour comes back to haunt him, though, and Seung-gil wakes up at two in the morning, then three, and again at four. Phichit is already awake the last time, playing a brain-teasing game on his phone, and he reacts more than amenably to Seung-gil’s hand resting between his legs.

It’s convenient, Seung-gil reflects as he sucks kisses onto Phichit’s bare thighs, that they’ve stopped bothering with sleep clothes.

“Mm,” Phichit sighs. He’s still on his phone, and Seung-gil’s only goal right now is to lure him away from it at least until dawn. “Our selfie has— _ah_ —more than four thousand likes alread— _ee!_ Seung-gil!”

Seung-gil looks up at Phichit without remorse from the red spot he’s nipped into Phichit’s inner thigh.

Phichit rolls his eyes and puts his phone aside. “ _Fiiiine_.” He pushes down the mattress until he’s more at level with Seung-gil, pouting at him. “No biting.”

Seung-gil thumbs a nearly identical spot on Phichit’s collarbone. “You liked this,” he points out.

“I did _not_ ,” Phichit lies.

It’s an odd thing to lie about when Seung-gil has a vivid memory of the moan Phichit let out when Seung-gil sucked and bit over that spot yesterday.

“You did,” Seung-gil says.

They hold eye contact for a long, turbulent moment, until Phichit admits, stone-faced, “I did,” and then grins.

Seung-gil smirks back and kisses the bite mark, laving his tongue over it while Phichit laughs.

Sheets of rain are pummeling the window by the time they’re finished, the light of dawn hidden behind granite clouds. Phichit asks, “Are you coming to practice today?” and Seung-gil whispers, “Yeah,” and they allow themselves a thirty-minute nap, curled together in the ruins of Phichit’s blankets.

•

Celestino greets them both with his typical amicability, and Phichit launches into his warmups without prompting. He and Seung-gil didn’t discuss anything that would imply that today is different from any other day, but he’s probably sensed that Seung-gil has made a decision, and left him the space to talk with Celestino alone.

Seung-gil laces up his skates more slowly than he usually would, running through the words in his head and wondering if they’re adequate. The sounds of Phichit’s skates slicing through ice, confident and quick, give him the surge of courage that pushes him off the bench and to the door of the rink.

Celestino is standing by the wall, tall and intent on his skater, projecting a commanding aura of equal intimidation to Yakov Feltsman.

Seung-gil takes a deep, full breath, then pushes off onto the ice. To Celestino’s credit, he barely glances to the side as Seung-gil approaches him.

“Coach Cialdini.”

“Good morning, Seung-gil.”

The impulse appears from nowhere to just keep skating. Nothing has to change today. He can think about this for another day. Maybe the certainty he feels right now is false, pushed into being by fear of making the wrong decision.

He stops before Celestino anyway and tries not to wilt under his knowing gaze.

“Thank you for offering to coach me,” Seung-gil says. He even bows, even though he wasn’t sure until this moment whether or not he was going to go through with that part. “I appreciate the gesture, and I’m honored by it.”

Celestino nods, lips pursed. “But you’d rather take a different option?”

Seung-gil blinks and says, “No?” with confusion thick in his voice. “I…I want to accept.”

Celestino blinks back. “Oh.”

“ _Yes!_ ”

There’s a solid impact against his back, and then Phichit’s arms are the only things keeping Seung-gil on his feet. On skates, however, Phichit isn’t nearly stable enough to balance both of them, and it’s only a few seconds before they’re a tangle of spilled limbs on the ice.

Celestino hums. “Phichit. Maybe there was a better way to do that?”

Phichit laughs. “Maybe,” he agrees. “Sorry, sugar lips.”

Seung-gil rubs his face with the hand that isn’t between Phichit’s head and the ice.

“Sugar lips…?”

•

That night, while Phichit is ordering them food for dinner on his tablet, Seung-gil finally opens one of the non-Phichit chats on his messaging app.

There are six messages and sixteen photos from Dae-sung, all of them in reference to Sunja.

Seung-gil licks his lips and starts by saving all the photos to his phone. He makes the one of Sunja napping with his younger niece in her bed his home screen wallpaper.

Next, he reads the messages.

[Sunja’s begging at the table. She didn’t do that last time she was here. Are you spoiling her more recently?]

[We bought a bed for Sunja to keep her off ours.]

[Failed experiment. Hee-sun told us this morning that Sunja’s been secretly sleeping in Ji-hee’s bed.]

[Took Sunja for a walk and she kept trying to get the leash off. ???]

[We’ll keep Sunja as long as you need us to. But she might forget you if you stay too long.]

There’s a fierce heat in his chest at the thought, but he knows it’s not true. He and his roommate are too close to ever forget each other, no matter what his conniving older brother says.

The last message is just: [If you want to video call us, we can put Sunja on.]

Seung-gil writes back, [I’d like that. When are you free?]

Phichit drops onto the sofa next to him and says, “Twenty minutes.” The kiss he presses against the corner of Seung-gil’s mouth has intent behind it, and Seung-gil is drawn to respond, but Dae-sung’s response pops up with a simple, [Now?]

Fingertips slide under Seung-gil’s shirt and tease slowly up the plane of his stomach. “Who’re you talking to?” Phichit murmurs, nuzzling his ear.

“My brother,” Seung-gil says. “He wants to video chat so I can talk with Sunja.” He enjoys a spark of pride that he was able to get the whole thought into words while Phichit’s hands are on him.

“Nice!” Phichit says, eyes bright. He takes his gloriously warm and clever hands away and says, “Can I stay? I miss her.”

Seung-gil reconnects the correct wires for platonic thought processes and clears his throat. “Okay.”

Phichit grins at him. “We can go back to that after the call.”

“Good,” Seung-gil says, a little embarrassed by the vehement enthusiasm evident in his voice. It’s not like anyone would blame him, though—he’s in near constant physical contact with one of the world’s most beautiful people who seems to think the same of him. There’s really no need to pretend he isn’t regularly astonished and grateful for his fortune in keeping this relationship going for as long as it has.

He has to struggle to pretend Phichit’s answering laugh isn’t as adorable as it is.

The call connects on the first ring, and Seung-gil is treated to the long-forgotten noises of schoolchildren dashing around the house getting ready for bed.

The face on the screen, however, isn’t the one Seung-gil was expecting.

Nam-ok, Dae-sung’s wife, raises her eyebrows at Seung-gil with a wry smile.

“Your dog ate the leg of my late mother’s antique doll.”

Phichit claps a hand over his mouth and Seung-gil is distracted from reacting to his sister-in-law’s claim.

“You understood that?” he asks.

Phichit lowers his hand. “Sunja bit her mother?” he guesses, sounding horrified.

Nam-ok snorts. “No,” she says in English. “My mother’s doll. But it’s a family treasure.”

Seung-gil eyes her. “This is the doll you said is possessed and watches you sleep so you put it in the back of your closet?” he clarifies.

Phichit says, “I didn’t understand any of that.”

“I didn’t say it was _my_ treasure,” Nam-ok says, back to Korean.

“Where’s Sunja?” Seung-gil says, tired already.

She smirks. “Oh I see. You can’t spare a few minutes’ small talk with the family caring for your beloved pet.”

“She’s not a pet,” Seung-gil reminds her yet again.

But Nam-ok is already standing and calling Sunja’s name. The sound of clacking nails on hardwood follows, and then Sunja clambers onto the couch before their laptop, wide-open doggy smile in place.

Phichit makes a high sound and says, “Sunja! Hello, perfect girl!”

Sunja’s mouth claps shut, and her ears perk, eyes swiveling for the source of the new voice.

Seung-gil covers his smile. “Sunja,” he says.

She stands up on the cushions and whines in abject confusion.

“That’s right,” Nam-ok says. “You’re being haunted by your owner for your menacing ways.”

“Stop lying to my roommate,” Seung-gil says with what he hopes is a severe edge.

She’s out of the frame, unfortunately, so he can’t tell if it works or not.

It becomes apparent that Sunja doesn’t understand the situation, but her tail wags after a few more exchanges involving Seung-gil’s voice. The conversation with Nam-ok ends with a promise to call back next week, and no questions as to how much longer Seung-gil is planning to stay in Bangkok.

There are more than two hundred other notifications left attached to his messaging app, and his emails are stacking up in truly despondent fashion, but now he knows Sunja has been well cared for, at least.

And he has a coach.

He leans his head back on the sofa and closes his eyes. He feels Phichit’s thumb slide up and down the bridge of his nose and encourages him to continue by doing nothing to stop him.

“How’re you feeling about today overall?” Phichit asks.

Seung-gil considers carefully before he answers.

The words feel right, so he says them.

“Ready to start over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for being so understanding last week. ♡ It was mainly myself that I disappointed because I like having an unblemished record for posting this on time. ;) Thank you for your weekly encouragements, because every single one means the world to me.


	18. January 12th-19th, 2018

Training with Celestino is equal parts baffling and unusual.

Baffling because Celestino appears to have a very different vision for Seung-gil than he has for Phichit, and unusual because Celestino doesn’t demand the things Seung-gil expects him to.

He arrives at the rink with Phichit thinking he’ll be put to work on his programs right away. He’s been officially and publicly removed from the Four Continents lineup, yes, but he’s lost two weeks of dedicated training, and he might still compete in the Olympics, and Worlds after that. He’s prepared for Celestino to ask the world of him, to prove that he’s worth the trouble.

Instead, Celestino says, “Show me how you trained on your own,” and then smoothly turns to tell Phichit his spin is traveling.

Seung-gil does as asked, though with a good dose of hesitance. The instructions are so vague—how long does Celestino want him to demonstrate? And which part of his training? Phichit is already warming up—does Celestino want them to work together? Obviously not…right?

Celestino doesn’t offer him anything else, though, and Seung-gil doesn’t feel comfortable asking for details, so Seung-gil makes a tentative decision and heads out onto the ice. He goes through his usual warmups, followed by his favorite figures. He keeps an ear out all the while for any further instructions, but Celestino only directs his comments at Phichit, and Phichit answers them all with exuberant, “Got it!”s and “Capisco!”s.

It’s difficult not to imagine what Min-so would think of a coach completely neglecting one of their skaters.

When Celestino calls, “That’s it!” from his place leaning on the wall, Seung-gil doesn’t process what he means right away. Then Celestino adds, “Seung-gil, once you’ve cooled down, come chat with me,” and Seung-gil stares back at him, flummoxed even further.

Phichit finishes his laps and takes off for the showers with suspicious speed, leaving Seung-gil with no reason not to go directly to Celestino.

“Let’s talk about your quads,” Celestino says. “You’re struggling with your loop, but before your free skate a couple of years ago I’d never seen you struggle with it before.”

Seung-gil suppresses a grimace and nods. It isn’t lost on him how it looks that he was the first in the world to land the quad loop in competition and now, ever since the ’16 GPF, his odds of successfully completing enough rotations for the quad to count has dropped by 38%. He’d rather not think about why, but if he’s going to help Celestino help him, he can’t avoid the memory of it forever.

At least not until he manages to do something even worse that takes its place as the most humiliating moment in his athletic career.

“Are there any other quads you feel confident with?” Celestino asks. “You’re good with the lutz, I noticed today, but I’ve never seen you try it in competition.”

This, at least, he can answer smoothly. “It was supposed to be for PyeongChang,” he says. Min-so’s idea, of course: to debut his second best quad on his home turf.

Celestino sits his impressive chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger. “What do you think of your programs?” he asks.

The non sequitur has Seung-gil scrambling to find an answer while simultaneously puzzling out why Celestino's asking.

Celestino seems to sense at least a hint of this and quirks a smirk. “The reason I ask, Seung-gil, is this: Min-so and I have been friends for a very long time,” he says. “We even trained together. Did she ever tell you?”

Seung-gil shakes his head.

“Not officially,” Celestino says. “But one summer we both traveled to Sweden to study under Bernard Lafontaine—you know him.”

Seung-gil nods. Lafontaine was a legend in his own time—like Nikiforov, but without the glamour. More of a chess master than a rock star, if a comparison had to be made. Any figure skater worth anything knows who Lafontaine was. What Seung-gil doesn’t know is why this matters.

“Lafontaine really loved coaching Min-so. She’s always been driven, more than anyone I’ve ever seen, and he admired that determination,” Celestino says. “She turned down a lot of opportunities for her sport, you know, and she didn’t have many supporters in Korea. The crowds never cheered very loud for her, and no one was harder on her than she was, so her medals were the only real marker of her improvement. As far as she was concerned, of course.”

Seung-gil nods, more slowly.

Celestino’s eyes are kind and soft as he says, “I think that she sees more of herself in you than there really is.”

There isn’t much Seung-gil can say to that.

That’s where their first day ends, and Seung-gil heads to the showers feeling raw and oddly comforted for once by a new, more experienced perspective.

•

“What did he tell you?” Phichit asks later.

“He talked about Min-so,” Seung-gil says. “I think he expected me to hear two messages when he only told me one.”

Phichit nods thoughtfully. Then he pierces the membrane of his egg yolk with a fork tine and says, “You do that too, you know,” with a playful glance up through his fringe.

Seung-gil flicks a cashew at him and doesn’t admit he’s right.

Phichit catches it in his mouth, laughs triumphantly, then complains for ten minutes that no one caught it on video.

•

The next day has even less structure. Celestino tells him to practice “what he wants” and to focus on his figures.

Seung-gil interprets this to mean that his warmup should consist of figures, but as he’s segueing into his more rigorous routines, Celestino calls, “Try a few more figures!”

Seung-gil obeys, but he can’t let go of his confusion enough to enjoy the intricate, methodical curves he traces into the ice.

His second day of training ends without any talk of Min-so or quads or really, anything of importance. Celestino just tells the two of them to wrap it up for today and arrive thirty minutes earlier from now on so they’ll have more time before the kids show up for their lesson.

•

“I don’t understand his coaching,” Seung-gil says.

“It’s only been two days,” Phichit laughs.

Seung-gil wonders at his phrasing. _Only?_

It’s _already_ been two days.

Is there a plan?

A goal?

Does Celestino even have an objective in mind for him, beyond “don’t coach him like Min-so did”?

•

Phichit works through his own programs relentlessly, and it’s a challenge not to watch him work. He dances and laughs through his warmups, then sings to himself under his breath as he builds up to complex jumps that he has yet to land in competition.

If Seung-gil had something to keep his mind occupied, he’d have a way of avoiding the artful distraction that is Phichit Chulanont, but because Celestino has Seung-gil on such a long leash, Seung-gil finds himself spending more and more time studying Phichit.

On his third official day of practice, Seung-gil studies Phichit’s approach to jumps. His toe loop for example is solid after years of drilling, but he only lands the loop 70% of the time and the lutz roughly 65% of the time. Seung-gil’s always had a firm rule never to attempt a jump he’s landed less than 95% of the time in practice, and judging by how rarely he sees Phichit incorporating quads into his programs, he suspects Phichit might have a similar rule for himself.

Phichit’s problem with quads is simple, as far as Seung-gil is concerned. His entrances into the jumps are a mess of poor attempts. They run the gamut of variety: too late, too early, too low, much higher than he meant to, too loose-limbed, too rigid, too off-kilter—Phichit has more ways of failing an entrance into a quad than there are quads themselves.

And if Seung-gil has noticed, Celestino must be aware, too. But each time Phichit flubs a jump and winds up sprawled on the ice, Celestino doesn’t offer any guidance at all. At best, he’ll clap a few times for encouragement and then shout, “You’re good?” or “Try it again!”

Phichit, meanwhile, usually responds by rolling up onto his blades and making some light, capricious comment. Sometimes, if he’s fallen particularly badly, he hisses through his teeth and takes a few minutes to check for potential injury, but he never seems particularly upset with himself.

The two of them are bewildering.

•

On the fourth day, Celestino and Phichit take a full two hours to go over his programs in minute detail, in preparation for Four Continents. All three three of them know Phichit has a solid shot at gold, even though the press seem focused on Katsuki again, as usual.

Seung-gil isn’t concerned at all. Both of Phichit’s programs are elegant and passionate. They’re as beautiful in their technical aspects as they are in presentation. The judges love Phichit, too, and Seung-gil is sure it’s only been through some truly biased emotion on the judges’ part that they keep giving the gold to the same three skaters.

Seung-gil has no doubt that Phichit will medal. It’s only a question of which one he’ll bring home.

•

Guang Hong calls them after practice on the fifth day and invites the two of them to a party his parents are throwing in Taipei while Four Continents is ongoing.

“Party,” Seung-gil repeats. In seconds, he’s relived every single party he’s ever had to attend for the ISU and his own family, and he doesn’t have enough words in any language to express all the vehemence of the “no” that’s taken root in his chest.

Phichit covers a snort with his hand.

Guang Hong’s walking somewhere in his city, mostly looking where he’s going but occasionally aiming pleading faces at the screen. “Please? I’m always so bored at their parties. They never invite anyone my age, so I’m _always_ the _only_ teenager surrounded by really little kids and adults. They’re trying to show me off since we’re hosting the next Winter Olympics and it’s going to be _so boring_ , please come? _Please_.”

“His parents are diplomats,” Phichit explains to Seung-gil in an undertone.

Seung-gil says, “Mm,” and still wants to say no. Vehemently.

Phichit’s iPad is seated on his living room table, and the two of them are seated on the floor. Phichit has had himself tucked against Seung-gil’s side and his cheek resting on Seung-gil’s shoulder for the majority of the call.

“You’re coming to Taiwan, right, Seung-gil?” Guang Hong asks.

It might be the first time Guang Hong’s ever directly spoken to him, and the realization of that catches Seung-gil off-guard. “I’m not skating,” he answers.

“Oh, I know,” Guang Hong says. “I saw on Twitter. You’re still going to come cheer us on, right?”

Seung-gil doesn’t know how to answer that. Celestino’s told him that he’s more than welcome to accompany them, but seeing as Celestino won’t be able to coach Seung-gil while Phichit is competing, there didn’t seem to be a point in giving him an answer right away.

When the hesitation goes on longer than it should, Phichit says, “I’ll go, even if Seung-gil can’t.”

“Ahh! _Thank you_ , Phichit, you’re the best! Ever!”

Seung-gil thinks, _He is,_ and blushes when the two of them laugh and he realizes he said it aloud.

•

“Do you _want_ to come with us?”

It’s Wednesday, they’re on Phichit’s balcony holding rapidly diminishing cups of bubble tea as they watch the traffic lights accumulate on the street below, and Four Continents is in four days.

Seung-gil struggles to hold his eyes open through a yawn. Part of him—a small part—wants to email his manager and ask if he can still compete. Logic still has the dominant areas of his brain under firm control, though, so he settles for appreciating the contentment soaking through his body.

His muscles have taken well to his return to training, and his mind seems to be functioning more clearly than it has in months. Some of the improvement he attributes to change in environment. The sun and the variety of meat dishes and the constant laughter that surrounds him everywhere from Phichit’s apartment to the streets of Bangkok to the rink clogged with overeager children and their talkative teachers—but he’d be stunned if the regular sex didn’t claim a bigger percentage of the credit.

When Phichit poses his question, Seung-gil’s not entirely listening. Instead, he’s fixated on the row of fingernail marks he left on Phichit’s shoulder. He’s a tiny bit guilty that they’re still visible two days after he made them—but mostly he’s thrilled that Phichit’s not bothering to hide them.

Granted, he only took off his team jacket once they got back to his apartment.

Seung-gil drags his gaze up to Phichit’s eyes and says, “Sorry?”

Phichit rolls his eyes, tamps down the smile his mouth is curving into, and repeats himself.

Seung-gil chews his lip and considers carefully before he answers.

Celestino and Phichit are leaving for Taipei on Saturday; their flight has long-since been booked, their hotel rooms are already reserved, and their respective roles in the competition are confirmed. But it wouldn’t be difficult to find a ticket to Taipei, and he’d even stay in a separate hotel room if he had to, if it meant he could watch Phichit compete.

It’s only the thought of going on public display—pried open by spectators, examined by officials, scrutinized by strangers who know more about him than he knows about them—that makes him say, “No, thank you,” even though it’s not what he wants.

Phichit nods as if he expected as much.

Then he turns his back on the city and props his elbows on the balcony, drink dangling from his hand. He’s watching Seung-gil now, somewhere between cautious and curious. “It’s just…” His gaze shifts into his apartment, glazed with thought. “We’ll be gone for a week. We won’t be back until the twenty-eighth. It seems kind of silly not to bring you.”

“Bring me?”

Phichit wrinkles his nose. “Okay, not _’bring’_. Invite? Take?” He visibly flounders and throws a helpless look at Seung-gil. “You know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

Seung-gil nods, and says, “I know. But no, thank you.”

The more he remembers what it’s like to have an excess of people utterly captivated by him, the more adamant he feels about it. When he went to France in November, when he watched Phichit surrounded by fans fixated on his every breath, when one even had the audacity to sit next to him—

“What are you going to do instead?” Phichit asks.

There, Seung-gil is stuck.

“I don’t know.”

They both fall quiet after that, absorbing the audible shift in sounds as the city transitions from afternoon hum to evening cacophony.

•

On Friday, at long last, after a week of training with Celestino, Seung-gil finally receives his first tacit instructions.

Unfortunately, the instructions he receives are just as troublesome as the lack of instructions were.

“I want you to go through both of your programs,” Celestino says, “and find the parts you connect with. I want you to go through your music, too, and do the same. It’s much too late to change them this far into the season, but what we can do is adjust your approach to them so we’re showing your strengths at the right moments.”

Seung-gil allows him to finish before he repeats, “‘Connect’?” in a dubious tone.

Celestino has his enigmatic moments. Where Phichit’s smiles throw around dazzling shards of kaleidoscopic light and color, Celestino’s simply incite a mysterious sensation of comfort. It might be his age and experience, or maybe just something in his character.

“Min-so selected your music this season, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“But even when you chose your music, what was your motivation behind those choices?”

 _My score_ springs to mind, but he’s reluctant to admit that, because Celestino clearly already suspects the answer.

He also wants to ask how to know when he’s _connected_ with something, but even thinking the question embarrasses him. If he has to ask, it means he’s never felt it, and he doesn’t want to encourage Celestino to think he’s robotic like so many others do.

“When would you like my answers?” Seung-gil asks instead.

Celestino laughs, head thrown back.

•

In the showers, Seung-gil says, “He laughed at me.”

Phichit kisses him until he stops sulking.

•

The night before the flight to Taipei, Phichit laces their fingers together and pins Seung-gil’s hands to the pillow over his head. “Hi,” he says with a rakish smile.

Seung-gil—who didn’t really have any particular plans for his arms tonight—relaxes in Phichit’s grip.

He’s learned to appreciate the calm in trusting someone else to take control.

Phichit must sense some part of how he’s feeling, judging by his slow, warm smile, and the deep kiss that follows.

“Did you know,” Phichit murmurs, closing his hands around Seung-gil’s wrists and squeezing, “that we’ve had sex at least twice every day for the last week?”

Seung-gil allows his mouth to tick up just slightly. “I did know,” he says. “I was here.”

Phichit laughs, and hearing that uncomplicated, happy sound sets off thrills of joy in Seung-gil that have become both familiar and precious to him ever since Seung-gil was allowed a place in Phichit’s life.

It isn’t until Phichit’s filling him that Seung-gil has to close his eyes or risk his emotions carrying him off into precarious territory. He hates that Phichit brought up the regularity of the sex they’ve been having—realizing that he’ll be without it for a week might very well be what kills him.

Over the last week, Phichit’s discovered and honed a talent and appreciation for topping to the point where even “at least twice every day” doesn’t feel like enough. To Seung-gil’s amusement, the amount of porn Phichit’s watched has diminished noticeably, while his regular intake of firsthand written experiences has increased. “I never studied like this in school,” Phichit commented just yesterday, breathless and grinning at Seung-gil over his phone.

Seung-gil clenches his eyes shut tighter and focuses first on breathing steadily, then on the hot, unyielding pleasure spreading through him. It was through a popular thread on Twitter that Phichit got the idea to wear a plug while topping, and as Phichit shivers and his cock buried inside Seung-gil throbs, Seung-gil feels a rare burst of gratitude toward a total stranger on the internet.

When Phichit builds to a rhythm, rolling and snapping his hips at a relentless pace, Seung-gil expects to want use of his hands, but to his surprise he just wants Phichit to hold him down more firmly.

He doesn’t know how to form the words, so he exhales a trembling breath and opens himself up more, releasing his tensed arm muscles and loosening his fists.

Phichit notices and misinterprets what Seung-gil wants, sliding his hands more gently down Seung-gil’s arms.

“No,” Seung-gil blurts.

Phichit frowns and licks his lips. “What?”

With Phichit’s grip so light, it’s easy for Seung-gil to free his right hand and use it to guide Phichit’s left hand back to his left wrist.

Phichit’s eyes switch back and forth between Seung-gil’s eyes, searching, and then he says, “Really?”

Seung-gil nods, and satisfaction sweeps through him as Phichit returns both hands to Seung-gil’s wrists. Seung-gil even closes his eyes and sighs when Phichit presses down on his wrists experimentally.

Within minutes they’re back at pace, Phichit trying to last even though Seung-gil can hear in his voice that he’s a hair’s breadth from coming. Seung-gil’s own mind is glazed with raw urgency and florid need, held down and opened wide over and over on Phichit’s cock, everything he knows narrowed down to harsh, damp breaths against his lips and Phichit’s stomach grazing his slovenly-lubed erection.

“Please go,” Phichit moans, burying his face in Seung-gil’s neck. “I want you there.”

Seung-gil hears himself whisper, “Okay,” and then whimpers as the emotion he’s been stifling finally cascades over the barriers he’s put up to fence it in. “I’ll go.”

Phichit makes a low noise in his chest and sucks wet kisses down the slope of Seung-gil’s neck, slowing his momentum down and tightening his fists around Seung-gil’s wrists until dull, pleasured pain blossoms there.

Maybe he can put up with the world for a week if Phichit is with him.

•

Phichit falls asleep clinging to him, and Seung-gil marvels at his grip.

•

Unsurprisingly, their flight is fully booked.

But the one two hours after it has a window seat in business class available.

Seung-gil forwards the confirmation email to Celestino and Phichit and watches with satisfaction over Phichit’s sleeping face as the notification lights up Phichit’s phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The competitive world awaits~! As do our beloved competitors, and our favorite ostentatious power couple fiancés. ♡


	19. January 21st-22nd, 2018

Seung-gil arrives in Taipei believing that the incoming swarm of skaters with their various entourages will distract from his own solo appearance. He is wrong.

The first screams of, “IT’S SEUNG-GIL!” and “OH MY GOD!” as he steps out of baggage claim should be enough to dispel his mistaken assumption, but he manages to construct an uncharacteristically optimistic thought that maybe there’s another Korean man near him who looks enough like him that the squealing women are just confused.

Then he hears a woman near him hiss in English, “Go give this to him!” and a tiny, wide-eyed white girl appears in his path clutching a South Korean flag on a plastic stick.

“Uh,” she says.

He stares down at her, conscious of the passengers flooding around the two of them like river water flowing around a bolder and a stone.

“Cynthia!” the hissing voice comes again.

The girl blinks rapidly and shoves the flag at his stomach, not even bothering to see if he’s grabbed it (he has) before bolting back into the crowd.

A cluster of onlookers coo, “Awww!” in unison, and Seung-gil grimaces. He keeps walking, pretending not to notice the hands that snatch at his clothes as he passes. He tucks the flag in his pocket and runs through the six and a half times tables until he’s safely tucked away in a cab.

•

Taipei is…fine. Unlike Bangkok, which seemed to glow with promise upon his arrival, Taipei is just another loud city he’s only seen through glimpses from behind windows in between competitions. The cab driver doesn’t talk to Seung-gil at all until they near the hotel, when he calls, “This is it?” over his shoulder. Seung-gil offers only an affirmative grunt in return.

The hotel is also…fine. It’s a stone’s throw or so from the rink and relatively modern looking. Some kind of construction has the main entrance coated in plastic sheets and tape, so Seung-gil sighs and takes a ten-second detour to the side entrance. He checks his phone as he walks, but neither Phichit nor Celestino have answered his messages. With nowhere to go and no one to meet, Seung-gil sits on an empty couch near a decorative white piano and, to pass the time, stares at a sign nearby. The top line is in Chinese characters with English lettering below it.

 _Please excuse our mess_ , the sign implores, _as we continue our renovations._

Seung-gil grudgingly forgives the door situation.

He senses someone staring at him once or twice, and he’s certain he’s heard the shutter of a camera at least a dozen times since he sat down twelve minutes ago, but he’s too tired to find somewhere more private.

He’s already exhausted with this trip. But the promise of having Phichit near him soon is a small comfort.

The “Hey!” that finally catches his attention comes from behind him, and by the time he’s placed the voice as belonging to Leo, the kid himself is before him. “Seung-gil!”

It’s a second before Seung-gil decides to respond, and then it’s only a limp, “Yes?”

Leo grins. He’s in neon blue sunglasses and a dark denim jacket peppered with fabric badges belonging to brands and interests Seung-gil can’t identify. Beside him is a rolling suitcase painted in colors that scream _I come from the excited-golden-retriever-no-one-trained country_ and bound shut with a black and gold band. “When’d you get here?” Leo asks him.

“Today,” Seung-gil says.

For some reason, Leo’s expression changes to something a little friendlier. “Cool. I heard you’re not competing. You just came to watch?”

Seung-gil says, “Yes,” and stares. He doesn’t like small talk on a good day, but small talk in English with a native speaker is akin to mild torture.

The silence after Seung-gil’s answer stretches on, and Seung-gil sincerely hopes that Leo will interpret the meaning of it correctly and leave.

Instead, Leo says, “You haven’t checked in yet?” and Seung-gil purses his lips.

 _No, because I’m staying with my boyfriend,_ is what he _won’t_ say. _The boyfriend who’s abandoned me,_ is what he won’t _add_.

“No,” is what he does say.

Leo laughs. “All right, man, cool.”

…Is it?

Why?

…Americans….

“Listen, I’m gonna head up to my room,” Leo says, “but I’ll catch you at Guang Hong’s party tomorrow night, right?”

Seung-gil’s curiosity spurs him to ask, “You’re going?”

Leo tilts his head, a confused smile quirking his lips. “Well, yeah. I always go to his parents’ parties. I think you’ll enjoy it—a bunch of skaters are going this time.”

That mischievous little—

“ _Seung-gil!_ ”

He and Leo twist around and easily spot Phichit peeking around the wall of the elevator bank. Like Leo, he’s in sunglasses, but his wide grin would give him away to even the most casual of fans.

Leo asks Seung-gil, “What’s he doing?” with a breath of amusement.

“I’m afraid of the answer,” Seung-gil says, standing.

Leo’s bark of laughter catches him off guard and perks a tendril of surprised satisfaction in him. Together, they tow their bags over to the elevators, Seung-gil ever-conscious of the eyes on them as they move. Once they’re reasonably concealed in the smaller space the elevator bank occupies, Phichit launches forward and dances back with Leo’s sunglasses in hand.

Seung-gil rubs his forehead and presses the elevator button.

Beside him, Phichit says, “I knew it! These are the same brand—”

“—as Nunzy’s!” Leo finishes eagerly.

“Where did you—?”

“From him!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah! He had a giveaway when he got to five million subscribers and when he found out I follow him, he sent me an extra pair for promo—”

“The elevator is here,” Seung-gil says, stretching an arm out to keep the doors open.

Phichit smiles at him apologetically and darts inside. The energy pouring off him is infectious and sweet, but when Seung-gil notices a pair of guys across the lobby trying to take subtle shots with their phones, some of his affection turns to annoyance.

They’re all on the same floor, it turns out. Leo’s room is six down from Phichit’s, and Leo makes a knowing sound when Phichit pauses with Seung-gil in front of what is now their room.

“You guys aren’t public yet, right?” Leo asks. His voice is pitched low even though the hallway is empty, presumably because they’re all familiar with how well sound can carry through hotel room doors to a dedicated eavesdropper.

Phichit shakes his head, and Seung-gil feels a tinge of guilt at the way his lips purse with a nuanced kind of _unfortunately, no_.

It presses Seung-gil to say, “After the Olympics,” and then promptly wonder _where that came from_.

Phichit swivels his head to stare at Seung-gil, and Leo clearly senses something odd from the way he volleys looks back and forth between them. It’s unnerving, realizing that there’s a new observant person in Seung-gil’s extended universe now.

“So,” Leo says. “I’ll see you guys later?” He claps Seung-gil’s shoulder with a bracing smile. “Thanks again for coming to support us, Seung-gil.”

Seung-gil manages a polite, “You’re welcome,” if only because he knows it’ll surprise Phichit.

Sure enough, once they’re inside the room and Seung-gil has set himself to the task of unpacking, Phichit gives him a distinctly fond grin from the bed.

“Hey,” Phichit says. “C’mere.”

Seung-gil abandons whatever he’s holding and crosses the room in seconds. He stands between Phichit’s spread thighs and tamps down the fire in his chest when Phichit loops his arms around Seung-gil’s waist and rests his cheek on his stomach.

“Thank you for being here,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call. I dropped my phone in the toilet.”

Seung-gil lets that soak in for a long moment, then surprises even himself with a loud bark of laughter.

“ _I know_ , shut up,” Phichit whines. He burrows his whole face in the front of Seung-gil’s jacket.

“Is it broken?” Seung-gil asks. He runs his hand over Phichit’s hair, appreciating the warmth and the texture after hours parted from it.

“I don’t _know_ ,” Phichit groans. “I have it wrapped in a bunch of towels right now. I was gonna go find Guang Hong and use his phone to find a store to replace _my_ phone, but I didn’t want to leave before you got here, and Ciao Ciao’s on a date so I haven’t been able to get in touch with _him_ , and—”

“You’ve only been here for two hours,” Seung-gil says. “How is Celestino already on a date?”

Phichit reaches up and unzips Seung-gil’s jacket. “His husband is here,” he says absently, and then his face is pressing hot through the thin fabric of Seung-gil’s T-shirt. “I really want to make out with you,” Phichit sighs, “but I have to go deal with my phone. I can’t lose everything on it. Do you wanna come?”

Seung-gil never wants to leave this room again.

He settles for shaking his head and saying, “I’ll take a bath.” Then, as an afterthought, “Do you want my phone?”

Heaving a deep gasp of emotion, Phichit pulls back, grips Seung-gil’s hips, and says, “I love you _so much_ ,” before attempting to kiss every unkissed centimeter of Seung-gil’s stomach.

The gratitude is a little odd. After the trip he’s had, being able to foist his phone off on someone else feels like something he should be thanking _Phichit_ for.

He doesn’t put a stop to the kisses, though.

•

During every competition until now, Seung-gil would eat breakfast with Min-so in the hotel restaurant or in his room by himself. Bonding with his competitors always seemed like an odd exercise at best, and only after being presented with the fact that he’s not competing this time does he agree to accompany Phichit to the restaurant for the breakfast buffet.

It quickly becomes an incredibly perplexing social event.

Leo and Guang Hong are already present, seated side by side at a table near the windows. They’re both silent, fixated on their phones. Their coaches are up at the buffet, talking at length over the dumpling tray. The loud Canadian, seated at a separate table, has his head on the surface, apparently asleep, while his parents talk over his head. No sign of Katsuki, who’s competing, or Nikiforov, who isn’t. The rest of the faces are vaguely familiar but might as well be white noise for the value they hold in Seung-gil’s estimation.

Phichit, of course, sits with Leo and Guang Hong.

“You told us you would be alone,” Seung-gil says, once Phichit’s left to get food from the buffet.

Guang Hong seems to understand he’s being spoken to and blinks over his phone. “Hm?” His eyes are unfocused and the skin around them a little sallow. All at once, however, he seems to put it together and drags up a sheepish smile. “Well, I com…plained to a bunch of people, and they decided to come?”

Leo rolls his eyes as he scoops rice onto his chopsticks. “He’s figured you out, Guang Hong,” he says.

Seung-gil’s opinion of Leo lifts a notch.

Guang Hong, meanwhile, projects his innocent facade for an indecisive moment, then lets out his breath in a gust. “Okay, fine!” he says. “I really, really wanted you to come to the party tonight, and I knew you wouldn’t unless Phichit was there, and I didn’t think _he’d_ want to come without you and you’re not really a party sort of person, so I thought if I made it sound like I _really_ needed you there, then Phichit would—”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says, drawing back in alarm. “I understand. Please stop talking.”

Guang Hong stops and tilts his head with apparent confusion, Leo does a very bad job of muffling his laughter in his sleeve, and across the room the loud Canadian yawns and manages to broadcast it across the entire restaurant.

“I’m so hungry,” Phichit moans as he drops into the chair beside Seung-gil with a heaping plate. He immediately tucks in, and the vehemence of his appetite calls up a visceral memory from last night and then another one—even more vivid—from an hour ago. As heat sinks through his body, Seung-gil decides it’s a good time to leave the table for his own food before his face does something that telegraphs too clearly what he’s thinking about.

When Seung-gil is halfway to the buffet, Nikiforov and Katsuki seize the room. Which is less to say that they simply _enter_ , and more that they change the entire atmosphere of their surroundings with the force of their presence. Seung-gil even stops in his tracks on his way to the buffet table and doesn’t notice he’s done so until a waiter has to walk around him balancing a very large tray loaded with used dishes on her hand.

Nikiforov and Katsuki select a table near Phichit, apparently unaware of the effect they’re having on the room and its occupants. Nikiforov walks with both grace and charisma while Katuski exudes sharp edges and bitter frost. Katsuki barely acknowledges Phichit’s cheerful greeting as he sits and rubs his eyes under his glasses, only nodding when Nikiforov bends to whisper in his ear.

As Nikiforov heads in Seung-gil’s direction, Seung-gil firmly draws his attention back to the trays before him and collects whatever looks most filling onto his plate.

Nikiforov moves along the opposite side with two plates on a single tray, and Seung-gil remembers all at once the very unnecessary video call they were both part of.

The urge to drop the plate and flee the room feels all of a sudden like a wise, well-balanced idea.

It isn’t until Nikiforov leaves the buffet without a single word that Seung-gil simultaneously relaxes and trusts that the path back to his table will be met with zero resistance. When he sits down, Phichit’s plate is sparkling and he’s leaning over the back of his chair to talk to the Katsuki-shaped pool of head and limbs splayed on the table beside theirs.

“Seung-gil’s letting me borrow his phone until they fix mine,” Phichit says with pride. He tosses Seung-gil a doting smile that infuses Seung-gil with instant, inexplicable warmth.

“Mm,” says Katsuki’s corpse.

Without pausing in buttering his bread roll, Nikiforov says, “ _Yuu_ ri,” in a sultry purr. “Wake up.”

Half a second later, Katsuki’s sitting bolt upright, hand over his mouth. The look he fires at Nikiforov is heated on a number of levels. “ _Viktor!_ ”

Nikiforov casts him a coy look under his lashes. “Yes?”

“Nothing,” Katsuki sighs. He rubs his eyelids again, digging his fingertips in with pressure that makes Seung-gil wonder if he cares about being able to see the ice later.

Phichit is posed with Seung-gil’s phone facing the scene going on beside them, but the screen is dark, and Seung-gil remembers with amusement that Phichit has been having trouble remembering the passcode.

By the time Celestino arrives with an even taller man sporting an even more pronounced chin, Seung-gil has been allowed to thoroughly melt into the background. He only puts his fork down to be introduced to Celestino’s husband Dalian, and then he picks it back up and remains tuned out for the remainder of breakfast.

It isn’t until they’re back in their room and Phichit has yanked him back into bed for a “ten-minute nap” that Seung-gil thinks, _I guess that wasn’t terrible._

Still unusual.

•

The first official practice lasts most of the day, and Seung-gil spends all of it in the venue, if not inside the rink itself.

He changes seats every so often to vary his sight-lines, and for the first time in his life he considers how his own programs look from these different angles in the audience.

Over and over, despite the masses on the ice, Seung-gil catches himself focused only on Phichit, and he has to force himself over and over to study someone else for a while. Before…recent events…watching Phichit skate was at least partly reconnaissance for his own benefit. He and Min-so had to know the strengths and weaknesses of his competition in order to know how best to set up his programs. Despite his longstanding crush on Phichit, he’d always been able to switch off those unhelpful thoughts and longings and concentrate on the technical aspects of Phichit’s skating.

However. It turns out that knowing Phichit’s kinkiest secrets in intimate detail _firsthand_ has gone a long way to demolishing the strength of Seung-gil’s analytical attention.

That “ten-minute nap” and what they turned it into is still fresh in his mind, for one thing. At full volume, since no one else around him can hear his memories.

With a touch of smugness, Seung-gil wonders if he and Phichit are a more sexual couple than Nikiforov and Katsuki.

Phichit could probably find out.

… _Attention is, once again, not where it should be,_ he thinks with frustration.

His turtleneck and scarf and gloves provide warmth throughout most of the morning, but by late afternoon Seung-gil’s fingertips are chilled stiff inside his gloves and he’s fantasizing about the bath in their hotel room. Preferably with his boyfriend in it.

He’s forgotten about the party completely until Phichit exits the ice, slips on his blade guards, and says to him, “Are you gonna get changed too?”

…

Right.

Damn it.

•

“Changing”, it turns out, is a process that involves more than just removing their current clothes and replacing them with fresh ones. It also means taking a shower, then making out during said shower, followed by more making out in towels on their bed, and finally a mutual handjob that leaves Seung-gil feeling both ornery and indolent.

“I want to stay here,” he says. He presses a soft kiss against Phichit’s neck and hums vibrations against his skin, feeling like he’ll do something uncontrollable like _whine_ if Phichit says no. “Please?”

Phichit shoves at his shoulder without any real force. “I wish,” he says with warmth, “but c’mon. We said we would.”

“It was under false pretenses,” Seung-gil fires back, too lazy and sated to bother with English anymore.

“I…have no idea what you just said,” Phichit says, laughing quietly. “And if I can’t understand the argument, you lose by default.”

“Fuck that,” Seung-gil says in English.

The laughter that follows is so uninhibited and wild, Phichit actually sounds like he can’t breathe. Seung-gil watches him, puzzled, and uses the time to wonder if he can keep Phichit here by offering to watch The King and the Skater together for the fourth time.

•

He can’t.

(“We can watch it tomorrow night!”)

•

Seung-gil’s final attempt to excuse himself from the party—a (planned) lack of formal attire—is swiftly defeated by Phichit pulling an extra suit out of the closet by the door with a triumphant grin.

“I had it delivered to the hotel,” Phichit says. “Happy birthday!”

Seung-gil opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he decides on, “My birthday—”

“—is in June,” Phichit says. “So it’s a little early, who cares? Viktor gets one for Yuuri every year on his birthday, so I’m _expanding_ the tradition!” He winks and thrusts the suit bag at Seung-gil’s face. “Try it on!”

There is probably a selfish reason behind this, Seung-gil knows. Phichit regularly teases him about his fashion, and this is probably just to help Seung-gil appear to be more of an adult than he normally looks. But until this moment, Seung-gil never imagined that Phichit would reach such a level of comfort with him that he’d perform such an extravagant favor on Seung-gil’s behalf without even being asked by anyone.

Seung-gil takes the bag, stunned, and silently does as he’s been told.

His awe wears off once he’s hit his fourth roadblock. This suit is far, far fancier than anything Seung-gil’s worn so far in his very short adult life. As a child, he attended galas and parties and celebrations with his family, dressed in all manner of complex, three-piece suits and suspenders and bowties and gloves and gleaming leather shoes. He had no power over his own clothes then, but when he made his senior debut and then moved into his own home, he went to great lengths to keep everything he wore limited to one layer. Two when cold.

The monstrosity Phichit’s chosen for him, meanwhile, is _devious_ in complexity. There are two belts. The jacket has _straps_. The pants have seven buttons instead of a zip fly—only the _shoes_ have zippers. All told, the gray and black plaid vest is just about the only part of the ensemble that he likes—three buttons, very simple.

However, when Phichit emerges from the bathroom looking resplendent and Seung-gil announces that he’s dressed, Phichit insists that Seung-gil wear a shirt under the vest.

In the end, it takes a very combative forty minutes for the two of them to “get changed”.

And yet, as they leave their hotel and step into one of the idling cabs waiting under the awning, Seung-gil is treated to a wave of pride.

He’s here for Phichit. He’s here because Phichit asked him to be. He’s here in an expensive, ornate suit, sitting next to the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, because that person wants him here. To watch him skate, to watch him win. To support him if he doesn’t.

Seung-gil steals his hand slowly across the leather seat between them and hooks Phichit’s pinky with his own.

Phichit smiles out the window, and Seung-gil thinks, _Whatever you do, I’ll be proud of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me in January: [outlining] Okay, so Four Continents'll take about a chapter, maybe less, and then—  
> Me in May: [This is the fic that doesn't end](https://youtu.be/0U2zJOryHKQ)♩


	20. January 23rd-27th, 2018

Ten other skaters their age show up to the party as well as a plethora of teenaged children of diplomats—all of whom Guang Hong seems to know by name. Seung-gil expects to feel annoyed by the ruse that got him here, but with so many others around to fulfill the social requirements of the evening, he finds he’s free to wander the venue at will and pick various tender meats off the buffet table whenever Phichit is distracted into conversation with someone else.

He only speaks to Guang Hong’s parents once, and he’s not impressed with the experience, nor they with him. When Guang Hong introduces Phichit, their smiles glow; when he introduces Seung-gil, they tighten their lips and hum in unison with polite disinterest.

“I’m really sorry,” Guang Hong says later, pink-cheeked and covering his face with his hands. “They keep doing that—they’re only being nice to the ones they think are top skaters. They’re really mad Viktor and Yuuri didn’t come, too. Uuugh.”

Phichit pulls a scowl and says, “But Seung-gil’s one of the best skaters in the world!” with such indignant sincerity it seizes the breath in Seung-gil’s lungs for half a second.

Guang Hong drops his hands and yelps, “I _know!_ Don’t you know I know? I know! Look, they’re obsessed with Beijing hosting the next Olympics and they have this whole media project planned, then they saw on the news that Seung-gil’s not skating and so now they think he’s unreli—wait, you know what, never mind.” He offers a timid laugh. “They’re wrong, so it doesn’t matter what they think.”

_Unreliable._

Hm.

The stocky, rectangular figure of Guang Hong’s father saunters up the main carpeted staircase and into the crowded Victorian lounge they’ve been sitting in since they arrived. “Your mother is looking for you!” he says in his posh, British-accented English. He claps Guang Hong on the shoulder with an eager smile and directs a quicksilver wink at Phichit. “Come, Guang Hong. The ambassador’s son is here to see you.”

Guang Hong offers them a pained grimace, then allows his father to shepherd him out of the room.

Phichit bites a grape from the vine on his plate with far more aggression than is typical for his eating habits.

Pleased by the sight in a way he can’t explain, Seung-gil takes an already-detached grape directly from Phichit’s plate and enjoys the loop in his head. _Seung-gil’s one of the best skaters in the world!_

Hmmm.

Over the next hour, Seung-gil only sees one other room in the enormous mansion and speaks with only one other person who isn’t Phichit (an absent “sorry, excuse me” to the man he bumped into leaving the bathroom). Many of the older faces he sees are familiar, tied in some way to various federations. Some are likely politicians based on their posture and guarded smiles. Phichit is a warm, steady presence by his side for much of the night, attracting person after person into varied topics of enthusiastic conversation. Seung-gil is content just to listen, and learns when to nod so everyone’s attention is kept thoroughly away from him.

Only when Phichit starts up a selfie storm with some French pair skaters does Seung-gil decide to detach from Phichit’s side for a while. He wanders into the next room and perks up a little at the sight of a buffet table loaded with plates and trays and decorative plants, for some reason. Within the next fifteen minutes he’s managed to sample two of each type of meat on display.

Twenty minutes after that, he’s figured out the approximate schedule of the waitstaff bringing in trays of replacements _and_ found a low-traffic part of the room to stand and wait in. Without question, the highlight of his chosen spot is that when he leans against the base of the column, facing just the right angle, he has a perfect view of the kitchen doors.

It’s there that the reporter finds him.

“Ah, Lee Seung-gil.”

Yellow stilettos, turquoise dress, pearl necklace, darker than Phichit, shaved head, resolute smile.

Seung-gil says, “Hello,” utterly without enthusiasm.

She tucks her sparkling, pocket-sized purse under her arm—probably intending to to shake his hand—and Seung-gil uses the ensuing gap to run through his mental list re: “Responses [Media/Unexpected Reporter]”. Short answers best, vague answers better, find an exit point at the earliest convenience, walk past someone more interesting to draw the reporter’s eye away from him.

As the handshake ends, Seung-gil considers himself prepared for anything.

“So, are you and Guang Hong friends?”

He stares back at her, answerless.

She doesn’t seem put off by it. If anything, her smile grows by a few degrees. “Oh, I’m sorry to lead with a personal question,” she says. “Can you tell I’m a reporter?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Ah, yeah, see?” She offers a laugh that seems genuine enough. “Can’t leave the job at the door.”

He flits a glance over her shoulder as a waiter slides a tray of freshly sliced prosciutto onto the table.

“I was surprised to hear you’d dropped out of Four Continents,” she continues. “It’s not quite the same without you, but I admire your decision.”

There are layers upon layers of meaning in her voice as she says that, and Seung-gil can’t tell which one—if any—is sincere. He settles on a safe, low noise in response.

“There are a lot of athletes who don’t take their mental health seriously,” she says.

Too late, he hears an alarm in his head.

“Uh,” he manages.

Amid the ocean of faces in the room, Seung-gil recognizes only the loud Canadian standing nearby with a flute of champagne he can’t possibly be old enough to have. He won’t be any help, certainly.

Perhaps sensing Seung-gil’s gaze piercing the side of his face, the loud Canadian glances over, blinks at him, and then—with disturbing swiftness—offers a wide grin and a thumbs up.

The reporter shifts her weight to intercept Seung-gil’s line of sight. “But you’re still aiming to compete in the Olympics, last I heard?” she says. She lifts her voice at the end, her smile deceptively airy.

Seung-gil says, “Yes,” because it’s honest and short, but he wonders about the wisdom of answering at all when he sees the new, deeply satisfied curve her mouth has taken.

The loud Canadian calls, “Hey! From Korea, right?” and starts to approach.

“Excuse me,” Seung-gil says to the reporter, and escapes.

Halfway through the crowd, itching for peace and quiet, he decides, _If I’m_ unreliable _it’s only at parties._

•

The next day, Phichit cajoles Seung-gil into coming with him to the store he took his toileted phone to and bounces with impatience while they wait for it to open.

“I’m going to die,” he shares in a whine. “I _need_ it, come oooon!”

Seung-gil notices a passing pair of teenage girls sweep Phichit with a judging glance and scowls back at them.

Phichit’s scheduled to skate in the opening ceremony later in the day, and he’s due at the rink before that, but of course the phone took priority and Seung-gil had no reason not to join in the retrieval journey. Seung-gil’s phone—the one Phichit’s clutching in his hand right now—has gradually become more of a security blanket than an actual functioning tool for him, and it’s clear he needs his own phone back in his life.

In an attempt to calm him, Seung-gil settles his hand on the back of Phichit’s neck.

The reaction is swift, Phichit twisting around to stare at him, then at the mainly empty surrounding area.

Seung-gil responds to that by rubbing his thumb up Phichit’s neck, stopping just under his ear.

Phichit smiles slowly and leans into his touch. His fidgeting ceases, too.

In the end, Phichit receives a new phone with most of the old data restored, and he celebrates for a solid minute that the missing data appears to be stuff he’s backed up. When Phichit looks to him for a reaction, Seung-gil says, “Congratulations,” and quirks his mouth in a tiny smile.

With his own phone back in his possession and Phichit immersed in darting from store to store searching for a new phone case, Seung-gil gives the messages he’s received over the last two days cursory looks and bland responses. The tone of his manager’s emails is somber but supportive, and Joelë’s are packed with YouTube links that Seung-gil has no real desire to open. There are hints of expectations—commercials his manager would like him to do, sponsorships he’d like Seung-gil to consider—but nothing momentous, and nothing pressing.

 _Focus on the Games,_ his manager’s written. _All I ask is that you keep me updated on your decisions, whatever they may be, and let me work with you through the process of making them into realities._

Phichit pops up in front of him holding what looks like a death metal hamster case. “I need this,” he says.

Seung-gil nods. Then, on impulse, he opens his camera and takes a photo of Phichit’s serious face and the ridiculous case, and pretends not to hear Phichit gasp, “ _Did you just—?_ ”

“I’ll upload it when I have wifi,” Seung-gil tells him, just for the wide-eyed shock it gets him.

Hours later, seated in the stands and prepared to watch the opening ceremony, he’s managed to decrease his total number of notifications across his four messaging apps from two hundred and six to zero. With his home screen quieted, Seung-gil settles in to enjoy the sight of Phichit utterly in his element and ever increasing his skill level.

He’s deliberately chosen, to Phichit’s amusement, a seat near the back surrounded by other empty seats.

He sent a selfie to Phichit and Phichit responded calling it a genius power move. _[Everyone can see you, and you’re just daring someone to be the first to break into your very obvious Keep Away Zone.]_ So far, he’s heard camera shutters and excited whispers, but no one yet has been brave enough to approach.

Luckily, that appears to include all members of the press as well. Whatever interest he continually inspires in them, it doesn’t compete against the allure and elegance and charisma Phichit possesses on the ice. He’d be frankly insulted on behalf of the sport if the press took any interest in him back here while Phichit is so much as standing in skates.

Sighing, Seung-gil leans back, crosses his legs, and tilts his chin up as the spotlights come on.

•

Phichit waves from the ice with both hands, and Seung-gil calms his heart and schools his expression before waving back with one.

•

It becomes a gif.

Several gifs.

And an article.

Then three more articles.

Probably other things, but Phichit stops listing them when Seung-gil pulls a pillow over his head to block out his voice.

•

Unfortunately, the press are actually expected and permitted to hang around the hotel, so Seung-gil can’t dodge them as he and Phichit step out of the hotel for breakfast the next morning. In retaliation, Seung-gil becomes even less verbose this time around and leaves Phichit to field the questions. It’s no surprise that Phichit’s better by far at handling them.

“Yesterday, your quad ended in quite a rough fall—”

Phichit gives a sheepish laugh and says, “Yeeeah, I didn’t plan on doing that.”

“The quad or the fall?”

“The ending!” Phichit says, winking. “I wanted to keep going and fly like a helicopter.”

The six journalists laugh and the sound is just genuine enough that Seung-gil’s defenses relax a little. He isn’t sure who among them know how fluent his English is, but he decides to pretend ignorance all the same. It’s too early for an interrogation in his second language, anyway—plus, it amuses him when they’re forced to slowly repeat their stranger, more invasive questions.

Phichit even takes a photo of him at some point, perfectly framing the moment Seung-gil curls his lip with disdain at a journalist who asked if he brought anything to throw on the ice for his competitors. It gets over two thousand likes over the course of the day, and Phichit laughs with glee in the evening as he reads off his favorite comments to his audience of three.

The men’s short program isn’t scheduled until the following day, so the four of them have gathered in Leo’s room for a room service dinner. Last night, Leo made the unpleasant midnight discovery of a centipede in his bed, and after a few hours of the video racking up views on Twitter, the hotel decided to extend the generous PR gesture of upgrading Leo to their nicest available suite. Guang Hong has apparently invited himself to stay the night, and Seung-gil doesn’t miss the speculative air of Phichit’s grin behind his can of apple juice.

The lights of Taipei outside the window are just as dazzling as Seoul’s, as Bangkok’s. But they hold none of the familiarity or promise, and Seung-gil finds himself homesick for one of the other two cities.

As Phichit recites a paragraph-long sentence in Thai, complete with hand gestures and weeping, Seung-gil rolls his eyes and takes another French fry from the vast spread on the foot of the king-size bed they’re all clustered on.

“So,” Guang Hong says while he’s applauding the performance, “they seem to be agreed that Seung-gil’s ‘annoyed with the press’ face is scary.”

“But not as scary as Phichit’s tweets,” Leo adds.

Simultaneously, Seung-gil frowns and Phichit’s eyes widen, which makes Seung-gil’s frown all the more intent.

“Why?” he asks Phichit.

Guang Hong has the grace to put on a sheepish face. “Ah, sorry, Seung-gil. I forgot you’re not as active on social media.”

Seung-gil doesn’t bother answering that, but he does turn more fully toward Guang Hong with the expectation that he’ll explain, since Phichit is blushing and pretending his roast chicken needs his immediate attention.

“Phichit made a big emotional thread about you on Twitter,” Guang Hong says.

“It wasn’t emotional!” Phichit objects. “Stop exaggerating!” He throws his cloth napkin at Guang Hong, the heat in his face more and more obvious by the minute.

“He isn’t really, though,” Leo says with an apologetic smile. “It was nice,” he tells Seung-gil. “He just told fans to respect your privacy, and he made some vague threats that anyone who bothered you would ‘be remembered’.”

Phichit groans through his fingers. It’s cute, how open he is about most things, but shy when it comes to standing his ground for something—or _someone_ he cares about. It isn’t until both Leo and Guang Hong are regarding Seung-gil with open surprise that he’s realizes he’s started to smile…the little one usually only Phichit sees.

Seung-gil rubs his knuckles over his mouth to squelch it a bit and says, “Oh.”

Somehow, this embarrasses Phichit more. He reaches out, grabs the napkin out of Guang Hong’s lap, and throws it in Guang Hong’s face again with a solemn pout.

There’s a beat of silence, then Leo and Guang Hong and even Phichit are laughing at the unnecessary sequence of actions. They’re raucous and happy, and their ongoing noise gives Seung-gil the time to collect himself and then digest just how much goes on outside the borders of his small, small world.

•

It takes about twenty minutes of searching after Phichit’s fallen asleep next to him, but once Seung-gil sees the sheer number of retweets and favorites, he’s sure he’s found it.

@chuchuskates  
_Hey, Chulafam! I have a small request for this upcoming week! I love you guys coming up and talking to me, and I’ve never had any negative experiences with fans. BUT plz remember not every skater is like me! Some really value their space and privacy, so what I want is (cont.)_

The next five tweets are as Guang Hong and Leo said, but they conclude without ever mentioning Seung-gil by name at all. It’s clear what Phichit means, though, and who he’s protecting, if the ensuing two hundred responses are any indication. At least two thirds of the tweets mention Seung-gil directly, and half of those include promises to leave Seung-gil alone and to warn any well-meaning fans they might see approaching him.

Suddenly, the success of Seung-gil’s “power move” at the opening ceremony makes sense.

Seung-gil puts his phone on the bedside table and settles his arms tight around Phichit’s chest.

“Thank you,” he murmurs three times, once for every language they share.

•

For the short program, he sits a little closer to the ice. He’s conscious of eyes following him down the stairs, but not a single hand darts out to touch him, and no one seems inclined to speak to him. Almost buoyant with relief, Seung-gil takes an aisle seat in a row that’s half empty and exhales as surreptitiously as he can.

•

Watching Phichit skate in practice is a rewarding, enrapturing experience. He shifts seamlessly between childlike exuberance to focused solemnity, and it’s never clear which he’s about to segue into. At Phichit’s core, he is an entertainer, even during the preparation stages to which only Celestino and now Seung-gil are privy. It’s a never-ending challenge for Seung-gil to concentrate on himself when Phichit is nearby making what was simple into something elaborate and captivating.

It’s only natural that he’s even more breathtaking in competition.

Because Phichit _feels_ … _everything_. Every stroke of his arm and twist of his hips and arc of his leg is its own note of music, calling up emotion from every heart in his audience.

Seung-gil stands when he applauds.

•

That, too, becomes a gif.

•

Following the short, Katsuki is in third with the loud Canadian in second and Phichit in first.

“Yuuri’s always kind of a wild card after the short, though,” Phichit says through a mouthful of salad. “Remember Worlds last year? He was in fifth and he still got gold!”

“You’ll win,” Seung-gil says.

Leo’s hosting an even bigger party in his suite tonight with at least twenty skaters invited, but Phichit bowed out on behalf of them both—even though he opens Snapchat every now and then to see how things are proceeding. (His and Seung-gil’s absence has been noted multiple times on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr.)

“I don’t mind if I don’t,” Phichit says.

Seung-gil nods. There isn’t a single hint of a lie in his voice, and it’s yet another thing about Phichit that’s baffled Seung-gil for years. Phichit has always been just as happy to leave a competition with nothing but a drawing from a fan as he is with a case holding any medal.

He isn’t quite thinking when he asks, “Why?”

Phichit regards him with honest curiosity for a few seconds, then puts his fork down on the tray between them. “Okay,” he says, spreading his hands, “so…why do you skate?”

The reversal catches him off-guard. “What?”

Phichit laughs. “I’m serious, c’mon. Why?”

It brings him back to Joelë in Seoul, watching him over the edge of his water glass in a restaurant floating above the city. _You could have chosen a lot of sports,_ he’d said. _Skiing, running, mountain climbing, speed skating, gymnastics—why did you choose figure skating? What’s at the heart of that choice?_

But that’s not what Phichit’s asking. He doesn’t want to know why Seung-gil _chose_ to skate. And at this stage in his life, Seung-gil isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to remember well enough to answer that.

Phichit just wants to know why he… _does_ skate.

“It’s…all I’m good at,” Seung-gil says, creasing his nose at the hollow sensation that follows.

Phichit bats at his shoulder. “That’s not true!” He tugs on the sleeve of Seung-gil’s T-shirt with an imploring smile. “Don’t say stuff like that. You could be doing a lot of other careers, and you’d be really successful, I think. You told me you got accepted to one of the best universities in your country and you even do advanced math in your head—to _relax!_ You could do a _lot_ of other things, but you want to skate.” Phichit pushes the tray to the far side of the bed and moves closer, taking Seung-gil’s hands in his own. This time, when he asks, “Why?” it’s softer and even more genuinely curious.

Maybe it’s the way he’s asking, or the gentle touch of Phichit’s fingertips pressing into his skin, or the unexpected reminder that Phichit is basically his rinkmate now, but something—or maybe everything at once—draws heat to Seung-gil’s eyes. He opens his mouth, but he has nothing to say, and he breathes in sharply through his nose when the first tear falls.

“C’mere,” Phichit murmurs, and Seung-gil goes, tucking his face against Phichit’s neck and shutting his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says. Then, quieter, in his own language, “But I should, shouldn’t I?”

It’s a long time before Phichit whispers, “You don’t have to.”

•

Phichit’s next photo uploaded to Instagram is of a handmade hamster wearing Phichit’s free skate costume with the glint of his gold medal in the upper right-hand corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I get a comment on this fic I really am just utterly gleeful and delighted, so I want to cast a general feeling of gratitude and utmost fondness back at you all for being so lovely. ♡


	21. January 29th-February 1st

[Glad to hear about PyeongChang. On that subject, I’ve had several requests for you to appear or at least allow your image to be used for the last batch of Olympic promotional materials. They’re going for a more multimedia approach than the still-image-type they’ve used so far, so it may require you to come back to Seoul for filming. Would this be something of interest to you?

I’ve also had a message from Nadica regarding…]

•

[Hey! Yo-han and I watched Phichit skate on TV! He’s gonna kick your ass if you're not careful, little brother. But who knows, maybe you’d like that. Yo-han says that’s inappropriate to say to my brother. Agree/disagree? Also, want me to come to the Olympics to cheer you on? If you say no I’ll still go, I’ll just be cheering for Phichit instead.]

•

[seung gil, thanks again for coming to taipei to support us! I know it was probably mainly for phichit, but it meant a lot to see you in the crowd. if you’re ever training in the states with celestino, send me a message, yeah?]

•

[Thank you so much for coming to the party, Seung-gil!!! I’m sorry I didn’t actually see much of you (my parents kept introducing me to new people uuuuuuuuugh) but I’m really happy you came so thank you!!]

•

[Done with your messages yet?]

Seung-gil scans the message and lifts his eyes to Phichit, who’s standing in skates near the center of the ice with his phone in one gloved hand.

“You’re not supposed to have that,” Seung-gil calls.

Phichit considers that, then sticks his tongue out.

Thanks to an impromptu race through the last few blocks to the rink, they still have another twenty minutes left before Celestino’s scheduled to arrive. So, technically, as their practice time hasn’t begun, Celestino’s desired practice etiquette has yet to apply.

He writes back, [Yes], and sends it.

Seung-gil only intended to read the message from his manager when he finished lacing up his skates, but curiosity led him into his messaging app and from there…

Phichit glances down at his screen and grins. “Good!” he yells. “C’mere!”

It’s as polite as things are between them normally these days, and it gives Seung-gil a warm rush to know that they’ve passed a few polite barriers on the way to…whatever incredibly close thing Nikiforov and Katsuki seem to have. Being that close to Phichit still seems a little fantastical, but not entirely unattainable.

Seung-gil leaves his phone on the bench and his skate guards on the wall and then pushes out onto the ice to join his rinkmate.

Phichit is waiting for him with outstretched hands. As Seung-gil glides closer, Phichit’s smile amps up and he wriggles his fingers. “Grab hold!” he calls.

Seung-gil does so, but warily, slowing to a stop once their hands are fully linked.

“Shall we dance?” Phichit asks, winking.

Seung-gil rewards that with a flat blink.

Phichit detaches one hand and pulls out his phone again. A few swipes and taps later, Seung-gil’s free skate music pours out of the small internal speakers. Seung-gil huffs out a laugh. Before he can object to the glimmer in Phichit’s eyes, however, Phichit is shimmying closer to him and humming along with the music.

“No to this,” Seung-gil says, careful to remain motionless.

Phichit kisses his cheek and lifts Seung-gil’s limp arm to spin under it.

“This is fun for you?” Seung-gil wonders aloud.

“Yes,” Phichit says. “I’m going to steal your music and choreograph my own program.” He emphasizes his weak threat by kissing Seung-gil’s cheek and then trying (so very unsuccessfully) to coerce Seung-gil into taking a spin of his own.

“Dance with me!” Phichit croons.

“No, thank you,” Seung-gil says in careful, monotone Thai. “Where is the bathroom. It’s ten o’clock. I’ll have the pasta.”

Phichit loses it and throws his head back, laughing and gripping Seung-gil’s hand vice-tight to stop himself from falling. When he’s calmed down a bit, Seung-gil uses his distraction to his advantage, wriggling free and bolting quick as a flash across the ice.

“Hey!”

It’s only when Seung-gil hears the clash of blades and ice behind him that he feels something stir in his heart. He’s never played like this before, and while it feels bizarre to rake sloppy, haphazard lines through the ice this way, it also feels…new. And not in an unpleasant sense.

Phichit’s laughing breaths and Seung-gil’s free skate music grow in volume, which must mean Phichit is gaining on him. On impulse, Seung-gil takes a jagged turn and doubles back the way he came, passing Phichit whose grasping hand barely grazes his arm.

“Hey!” Phichit wails with false dramatics. “Dance with me if you love me!”

In Korean, Seung-gil calls, “Those are unfair terms!” over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what that means!” Phichit shouts back.

“No!”

“That’s not what you said!”

He takes another sharp turn and ducks just as Phichit’s arms try to close around his shoulders. Phichit spills first, and Seung-gil trips on his toe-pick while checking over his shoulder that Phichit’s all right. Seung-gil’s sure it’s not entirely a surprise for Celestino to find them sprawled on the ice together, panting and laughing in snatches of breath together.

He’s barely begun to coach the two of them together, but he’s already seen worse from them.

•

[Mr. Lee, I’d like to apologize on behalf of my colleague, Ms. Delaney García. You may recall running into her at Director Ji’s banquet on the 23rd. She confesses that she might have been a little tactless in her conversation with you, and on behalf of our publication, I promise that a repeat incident will not occur. To better taste, I wonder if a formal interview may be of more interest to you—]

•

[Hey, Seung-gil! :D This is Supatra, your favorite pro bono Thai-based Uber driver. Good luck in Pyeongchang!]

•

[Your grandmother and I had a long conversation last night about you. I think you did what needed to be done. Also, Please bring Phichit home. I’d like to meet him. You should tell your father about him, too. It isn’t my place.]

•

On the last day of January, Phichit shows him a binder that he’s putting together for the ice show he wants to produce someday.

“I spent about seven hours on Pinterest one day learning how to scrapbook so I could make this,” Phichit tells him. He’s grinning, fingers interlocked around his knee, back against his headboard, waiting patiently for Seung-gil to casually look at something he holds so incredibly dear to his heart. Nothing about Phichit’s posture suggests anything remotely like shyness or hesitance. He’s just…watching. And smiling. As Seung-gil opens the book that details a dream Phichit must have kept to himself for years.

A dream he wants to share with Seung-gil someday, apparently.

“Nilawan wants to participate, too,” Phichit says. “Remember? The little girl you made friends with.”

“She’s not my friend,” Seung-gil says, turning the first page.

“Mm, sure,” Phichit says. “So, see this design here? I’m thinking of making Nilawan the elephant. This is the costume I’m thinking of. It’s a little complicated, so maybe not this _exactly_. I still have to talk to a designer about it, and then—”

Phichit’s binder is two solid kilos of color and glitz. There are presumably printed images cut and pasted in, along with scraps of paper with scribbled writing on them, postcards, and ticket stubs to various musicals—many of them big-name touring Broadway productions. None of it makes any sense to Seung-gil at all until Phichit points to various things and explains them.

“This is actually in the airport, if you saw it?” Phichit points to what appears to be two teams of people playing tug-of-war with a golden snake wrapped around a mountain. “It’s a really old story. Churning the ocean of milk. It’s also a very long story, but basically it’s about immortality and gods and betrayal. I don’t know all the right details, honestly—my mother told me one version when I was a kid with a snake spitting out poison that could destroy the world, so I had a lot of nightmares about that. But my dad said that story is why turtles are his favorite animal.”

“Turtles…?”

Phichit shrugs with an exaggerated lift and drop of his shoulders. “It’s part of the story. But that made me think: he loves turtles _a lot_ because of that story. He volunteered at an aquarium when he was a teenager because of that story, and he’s always looking for beached turtles to rescue every time he’s even close to the water.” Phichit touches his fingertip to the base of the mountain, where the snake’s golden belly is tightly cinched. “How many stories are there that aren’t getting passed down to younger generations? In a fun way? And how many good things could come from it if they were? Culture isn’t everything, but it makes strangers into family, and…I always liked that.”

The change in his voice draws Seung-gil’s eye from the page to Phichit’s eyes, but they’re unfocused and far away. When he returns from whatever vision he was imagining, he smiles at Seung-gil.

“That’s why the medals don’t matter much to me,” he says. “They used to, but…this is more important.”

Seung-gil nods. There’s logic in that. Phichit has a larger goal now. An intangible one, one that can’t compete with even a whole box of medals. It must be a precious thing to have, the knowledge that you’ve connected a child to their past. It must be an even more worthwhile thing to aim for—doing the same for hundreds at once.

The deeper Seung-gil goes into the binder, the more awestruck he is by the contents. Phichit not only has _ideas_ for his show’s music, he also has bullet-pointed information on how to obtain the rights, the proper channels to use for venues and contacts, and potential dates in the season to best host guest singers and performers. On what seems like every other page, he’s even done calculations in long form—not a digit added incorrectly, either (which is…a reason for kissing if ever there was one).

There are costumes, too. _So, so many_ costumes. Phichit isn’t much of an artist, but he’s made designs on at least a third of the binder’s pages. Eventually, there’s a page of skaters’ names, and Seung-gil sees his own sitting third from the top.

“See?” Phichit says, poking his cheek with a small smile. “Told you I wanted you.”

Seung-gil doesn’t acknowledge that in words, but he isn’t strong enough not to lean into him a little.

Every single page is bursting with the weight and import of Phichit’s dream, and Seung-gil is…envious. Of him. Of the solid path he’s found. Of the easy smiles he can pull from his heart.

As the sun sets, the long reach of its light through the living room windows gives Phichit’s bedroom a dim and intimate atmosphere. Seung-gil wonders how it will feel someday to know that he was once allowed to peek at Phichit’s grand, exciting future, contained in something so small he could hold it in his hands.

•

[hey seunggil! phichit gave me your info! this is jina. i saw you on twitter cheering on phichit. you two are really sweet. have you made it public yet because people keep asking if I know and i just say i haven’t heard. anyway i'll see you at the olympics!!! good luck!]

•

[To Seung-gil, Call your mother. No text. Call her. -Grandmother]

•

[Seung-gil, I’d like to apologize for leaving the team the way I did. I’ve had a lot of personal struggles over the last year, and I let the uncertainty of your circumstances interfere with my professionalism. Joële’s told me you’re doing better, and I’m genuinely happy to hear it. I wish you the best of luck at the Olympics and Worlds, and maybe someday our paths will intersect again.]

•

Celestino says, “Why don’t we add a quad?” and Seung-gil replies, “I already have two.”

Nearby, Phichit is helping the kids with their spins. However, every time he demonstrates, the girl who thinks Seung-gil looks Japanese will copy him before he’s finished.

“Nilawan!” Phichit laughs. “You wanna know why you keep falling?”

“Because I’m not good,” she says, matter-of-fact.

Nearby, leaning on the rink wall, her teacher makes a face. “It’s because you’re not watching the whole demonstration!” she shouts.

“Oh.”

Of course, Phichit is _meant to be_ focusing on his own programs—his only quad planned is still a mess, with only a 61% accuracy rate—and instead he’s performing for children. There’s a warmth in Phichit’s face whenever one of the kids tries to lean back too far and wobbles, forgetting they’re in skates and not sneakers. It’s an emotion entirely foreign in Seung-gil’s own experiences with children.

Celestino taps his bicep a few times with his thumb and asks, “Are you aiming for the podium?”

It takes only a few seconds for Seung-gil to confirm with himself that he truly means it when he says, “No.”

Celestino shrugs. “Then try the quad flip.”

Seung-gil waits for the sentence to change meanings in his head, and when it doesn’t he says, “I’m…sorry?”

“You might as well,” Celestino says with a dismissive, full-arm gesture. “Make it into a day of risks. A day of firsts. Your first Olympics, your first quad lutz, and your first quad flip. Voila. If you don’t make the podium, it’s still not wasted time.”

Seung-gil frowns and imagines the coronary Min-so would have to hear a coach talking like this to him, her jewel in the PyeongChang ring. “I don’t want to place _last_ ,” he says.

“I don’t think you will, but what does it matter if you do?” Celestino asks with worrying calm.

“It matters,” Seung-gil says.

“Why?”

Seung-gil is starting to hate that word.

Why. Why. Why.

Why does _why_ matter?

Because being last would be humiliating. It would be sign that he doesn’t take his training seriously—and that he ran away from home and can’t justify all the trouble he’s caused for others with a medal to offer his home country.

Why does he skate?

Because he’s twenty-one and he’s done this almost all his life and it’s too late to change and have success in anything else. Because he can’t imagine what it would take to switch gears. Because he can’t _not_ skate.

 _Because_.

What he says is, “I don’t want to place last,” with more emphasis on each and every word.

He expects a retort. Anger of some kind. Chilly disapproval.

Celestino _laughs_. “All right, okay.” He claps Seung-gil’s shoulder a few times. “Just humor me with the flip for this one practice and if you still feel it’s too big a risk, we’ll leave it as a possibility for next time.”

Next t…

Next time.

…why…?

Seung-gil can only nod and say, “Okay,” with some confusion.

Behind him, he doesn’t miss the significance behind Phichit’s gleeful shout, “If you learn _how_ to fall, you won’t hurt yourself, Nilawan!”

•

[Uncle, Sunja misses you. Please come home. Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy.]

•

[Disregard my daughter’s message. We’ve explained the situation to her. Do what you need to do. (Tell Phichit congratulations.)]

•

[Celestino has told me about your progress, and I’m happy to hear things are moving along in your favor! Risk has certainly been your ally this year, hasn’t it? I look forward to seeing how you handle your next challenge.]

•

There’s another rink on the perimeter of the city, and Phichit drives them there without explaining why.

Seung-gil allows it because the sex they had this morning has killed most of his upper brain functions and Phichit’s holding his hand and it feels nice.

Once Phichit’s parked and they’ve entered the rink, it becomes clear to Seung-gil that this place must be on the brink of bankruptcy. The paint on the walls is chipping, and some of the coverings on the walls of the rink are peeling from humidity, and the ceiling has a few splashes of water damage.

“My mom took me here when I was _really_ little,” Phichit says, skating backward and leading Seung-gil to an empty patch, “before the current rink existed.”

There are only two families on the ice—a pair of mothers with their toddler, and a pair of older folks with presumably their grandson. They don’t seem to recognize Phichit, but their smiles are warm and welcoming, and the toddler waves with puzzling eagerness.

Ten minutes later, Phichit’s face-down, starfished on the ice, and whining at full volume—to the vast amusement of the kid and the toddler on the other side of the rink.

“Why can’t I do this, Seung-gil?” Phichit moans. “Why am I so bad at quads?”

Seung-gil blinks. “Are you asking honestly?”

Phichit turns his head and stares up at him with obvious suspicion. “Y…es?”

“It’s because your legs are loose,” Seung-gil says. “Well. Just now they were. You have other problems, too.”

Phichit sighs, also at full volume, and shoves himself back onto his blades. “How did you _do_ this at, like, thirteen?” he complains.

“I wasn’t thirteen when I did the toe loop,” Seung-gil says.

He knows Phichit knows, but he enjoys the impatient look that his innocuous comment gets him.

“If it were up to me,” Seung-gil says, “judging would still be—”

“—about figures,” Phichit finishes, smirking.

Seung-gil catches Phichit around the waist and darts in to kiss his temple, to the distant cheering coo of the boy on the other side of the rink. “Listen,” Seung-gil says as earnestly as he can. “I think you don’t have to do any quads if you don’t want to. Tell Celestino you don’t want to. I think he’ll listen to you.”

“But I do,” Phichit says. He’s close to pouting as he rests his elbows on Seung-gil’s shoulders. “I just don’t know when I’m…I mean…I feel when I’m doing it wrong. I just don’t know when it starts.”

The boy skates by and yells, “Are you in love?”

Phichit has just said, “No,” when Seung-gil says, “Maybe,” in serene Thai, and something about the situation is so funny it sends the boy cackling back to his apologetically wincing grandparents.

Phichit, for one, isn’t paying him any attention. He tugs a strand of Seung-gil’s hair and says, “Wow. ‘Maybe’?” with a tiny smile so full of hope.

Seung-gil is careful not to let his expression shift as he replies, “And you said ‘no’.”

He deserves Phichit chasing him around the ice this time.

•

[Would you like me to clear out your fridge? I imagine some of it has already gone off, and the rest undoubtedly will if you’re not planning on returning anytime soon. Hae-il can let me in. Do you know when you’re coming back yet?]

•

[Mother,

I’ll be flying home with Phichit on Tuesday.

Can someone please pick us up?

Thank you.

—Seung-gil]


	22. February 2nd-6th, 2018

“Do you feel adequately prepared for your Olympic debut?”

“Adequate is…not the word I would use. Coach Celestino has given me a new perspective on my forward direction. Thanks to his support, I feel sufficiently prepared.”

“Do you attribute any of your confidence to others in your support circle?”

“My…I’m sorry?”

“Friends and family, lover…?”

“I appreciate support from everyone.”

“That’s great to hear. We wish you luck with your programs then, Seung-gil, and thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

•

“What new perspective?” Phichit asks from the floor. Arthur climbs his sleeve and Phichit offers him a congratulatory carrot slice.

Seung-gil, lying prone on the bed with his laptop screen lowered, says, “I made it up,” and sticks his face in Phichit’s pillow.

•

Once five days of practice and messages and eating out and and napping with Phichit and phoned-in interviews (figuratively and literally) have passed, the memories of it all condense into a single blur. The night before their flight to Seoul, Phichit takes Seung-gil to have dinner with his parents, and for the first time in nearly a week, time slows down.

Phichit’s father cups Seung-gil’s face in both hands with a smile full of deep affection and says, “You’re very welcome to our home,” and then punctuates the sentiment with a gentle squeeze on Seung-gil’s upper arms.

Phichit and his mother, meanwhile, have busied themselves with investigating Phichit’s latest bruise on his thigh (from his kitchen counter) and pretend they’re not watching.

The spread is more than generous, and Phichit laughs as he reminds his parents that eating portions half the size of their bodies will probably make their flight significantly less comfortable for them.

“You’re competing in the Olympics,” is all Phichit’s mother says, beaming. “So we made you both a champion’s feast.”

Seung-gil tries to find sufficient words to thank them for the effort they’ve put into this evening—and to apologize for monopolizing so much of Phichit’s time in the last days before he attends what could be a defining moment not only in his life and their family, but also their country. Whether Phichit cares about making the podium or not, it’s clear from the framed medals on the walls that _someone_ cares.

Ultimately, Seung-gil can’t think of anything good enough to say, and to his frustration the moment passes without a word spoken.

Phichit’s parents seem to interpret his silence as hesitance and helpfully stand to dig broad spoons into a variety of homemade dishes and rapidly cover his plate. Over the rice, their spoons clash by mistake, and Phichit’s parents cackle and launch into an impromptu spoon duel.

Phichit, far from embarrassed, cheers on his mother. Then his father. Then his mother again.

Two thirds into the meal, Phichit leaves the table for the bathroom and never comes back.

They find him asleep on the sofa, and Phichit’s mother covers him with a blanket before gesturing for Seung-gil to follow her into the adjacent room.

It’s apparent by the type of stuffed animals decorating every surface whose room it is.

“He can’t keep everything he gets from fans,” Phichit’s father says. “But these are some of his favorites.”

Seung-gil picks up a tiny Hamtaro that fits against the cradle of his hand and smiles.

“He donates the others,” Phichit’s mother says.

“Most do,” Seung-gil says absently.

“Do you?”

There’s something curious in her tone that draws his head up. He can’t identify it, but his kneejerk guess that she’s testing him feels wrong. When he examines it more carefully, he decides she just sounds…curious.

Cautiously, he says, “Sometimes,” and when she nods, he adds, “I give the rest to my nieces.”

Her smile brightens just like Phichit’s does. “You have nieces?”

“Two,” he says.

It’s at this point Phichit would pull out his phone and start a slideshow with commentary. He’d tell a few stories, ingratiate them with his audience. Seung-gil doesn’t feel up to the performance, so he just says, “They’re my oldest brother’s daughters,” and substitutes stories with, “They’re looking after my dog right now.”

The noise Phichit’s mother makes startles him back a few centimeters. “ _You have a dog?_ ” she gasps, fingertips pressed to her mouth.

Seung-gil smiles tentatively but helplessly back at her. _Now_ he pulls out his phone for a slideshow.

•

“Hamsters are my thing,” Phichit says later, “dogs are my mom’s.”

•

In one of Seung-gil’s dreams that night, he’s alone at an outdoor hot spring in Hokkaido. It’s snowing, and he’s submerged in a bath filled with medals of every degree. They’re cool to the touch and melt the moment he climbs out.

Sometime later, he wakes up. It’s four in the morning, he’s half-buried beneath Phichit, and he never manages to find his way back to sleep again.

He isn’t too upset over it.

•

Supatra picks them up at seven.

“I hate you,” she calls out the window in Thai.

Phichit replies, “You do not,” in English and pushes his luggage into the trunk of an entirely different car from the one she used to pick up Seung-gil from the airport.

“I might,” Seung-gil thinks she says. “I can’t complete thoughts at this hour.”

From Phichit’s snort of amusement, he’s probably not far off, so Seung-gil congratulates himself silently for understanding the meaning in her sleepy, slurry syllable smash-up.

“I don’t know why you had to leave this early,” she complains.

Neither of them tells her it’s because Phichit’s going to try to meet Seung-gil’s entire Seoul-based family in one day. Seung-gil would just as soon skip the whole exercise and show him photos, but Phichit insisted.

“We’ll bring you back souvenirs,” Phichit tells Supatra.

It’s so casually delivered Seung-gil almost misses the “we”. He thinks of the items he left hidden around Phichit’s apartment as an excuse to come back with him after the Games and realizes with a jolt of relief that he didn’t have to go to the trouble.

“Forget that. Tell me everything about the Olympic Village instead,” she says in English. “I want to know if it’s as sex crazy as everyone says.”

“I don’t plan on seeing the rest of the Village outside my room,” Phichit says with glowing satisfaction.

“You can see mine,” Seung-gil offers.

Supatra laughs and then grins at the two of them in her rearview mirror. “The second you two make your relationship public,” she says, “I’m tweeting that out.”

Phichit makes valiant attempts at maintaining the cheerful atmosphere, but his exhaustion shows through whenever there’s a lull. He closes his eyes longer and stretches out his limbs to wake himself up—little things. Supatra seems content to search for music to listen to, so Seung-gil eventually makes the executive decision to curl his hand around Phichit’s head and guide it down to his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he says. “I won’t leave without you.”

Tellingly, Phichit doesn’t fight it. He just smiles with his eyes closed and tells Supatra something like, “He’s funny if you pick up on his sense of humor.”

Seung-gil massages the back of Phichit’s neck and wonders if the fiery emotion climbing up his throat is a rawer form of love.

•

Phichit spends their flight watching movies and then contorting his body to nap with his head on Seung-gil’s forearm, presumably since Seung-gil’s seat-blocked shoulder is a tragic impossibility. His hair has grown out past his ears, Seung-gil notices, and it’s still holding the messy state Seung-gil put it into this morning before Supatra arrived.

He’s beautiful. Passionate. Charismatic.

Seung-gil’s family will love him and then likely wonder how Seung-gil convinced him he was worth Phichit’s time.

Considering Phichit’s skill, his dreams, his team, his friends, his family…. Phichit thrives by his good sense and his kindness, and the universe rewards him seemingly without end. As Phichit’s cheek seeps warmth into the bare skin of Seung-gil’s forearm, Seung-gil absently tucks a thick lick of hair behind his ear and wonders who Phichit would have chosen if not Seung-gil. Anyone would be lucky to have him by their side. Anyone would fight to keep him.

When the cabin lights dim and one of the flight attendants passes them, Seung-gil meets her eyes absently. Her slow smile strikes him as a few shades too warm until he realizes he’s still petting Phichit’s hair. He doesn’t bother stopping.

If he fully devotes his imagination to the task, Seung-gil envisions his world as a bright, clean, and organized cube, but Phichit’s is really just…the world.

He’s the only one Seung-gil knows, in fact, who truly _wants_ to be in the world as it is. As _he_ is.

As far as Seung-gil is concerned, there’s no greater strength or courage than that.

•

Seung-gil is expecting Hae-il to meet them the airport, so he’s a little stunned to see his father standing with the crowd in the arrivals area, hands in his pockets and broad toothy smile in place. Breathing shallowly through his nose, Seung-gil touches Phichit’s elbow and lets Phichit infer the situation for himself.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Phichit stops next to him and follows his gaze to Seung-gil’s father, now waving both hands.

Phichit smiles back and seizes Seung-gil’s wrist. “He looks nice!” he says with enthusiasm.

Mm.

•

As it turns out, Seung-gil’s father knows the director of The King and the Skater from his university days, and thus Seung-gil is excused entirely from the conversation. He doesn’t have to say a word from the doorway of the airport all the way to the entryway of his parents’ house, and he even gets to nap on Phichit’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of the drive.

He doesn’t object when Phichit massages his scalp, probably just as an excuse to touch his hair.

He’s starting to think Phichit has some hidden hair fetishes.

They arrive in time for brunch, which is something his mother has been doing off and on since she saw it in a movie last year. She’s piled scones and croissants on a silver, two-tier serving tray in the dining room with smaller porcelain pots of clotted cream and jam off to the side. When Seung-gil sees it, he winces with mild embarrassment, but Phichit’s delighted smile and swift grab for his phone to take photos eases it.

Seung-gil’s mother and father sit opposite them at the table and select a scone and croissant respectively off the serving tray. Phichit hesitantly picks one of each and smiles sheepishly when Seung-gil’s mother laughs and says with careful enunciation, “Yes, yes, please. Help yourself.”

Her English is appallingly low-level, and Seung-gil immediately thinks of how easily Phichit’s parents have spoken with him. Oddly, it didn’t occur to him until now that his mother might need him to act as an interpreter to talk to Phichit. His father, on the other hand, has more vocabulary and confidence with English, but his grammar is weak.

Between the two of them, Phichit has to glance at Seung-gil every few minutes for an explanation or an outright translation.

To Seung-gil’s annoyance, they ask all the expected questions. Education, family, post-retirement plans. They nod along with every one of Phichit’s answers, and every reaction is wedged firmly within a very narrow spectrum of neutrality. They probably love Phichit already, but it would be unbecoming to show too much fondness on the first meeting with essentially a stranger, so they hide it.

Phichit, meanwhile, seems delighted with the whole experience and doesn’t seem bothered in the least by the lack of energy on the other half of the table.

When Seung-gil asks, “Where are the twins?” the baked goods and two servings of tea have been consumed, and it’s almost two o’clock.

“You’re not going to Dae-sung’s family next?” his mother asks with a frown.

“Does it matter?” Seung-gil asks. “He’s at work. The twins are probably free. Besides, Phichit’s already met everyone but you two, so why does it matter what order it’s done in?”

“You should visit your family properly, Seung-gil,” she says, frowning.

“If that’s true, he should have met Grandmother first.”

“Normally that would be true, but she’s in Jeju right now. Your older brothers should be next, and the twins last.”

Phichit’s Korean isn’t anywhere near the level it would need to be to understand the rapid-fire speed and cold-clipped syllables he’s exchanging with his mother, which would explain his troubled expression. Across the table, Seung-gil’s father seems to decide to get involved. He clears his throat and leans on the table, hands clasped like he’s in a business meeting gone sour.

“Seung-gil,” he says. “It’s starting to seem like you’re trying to get this over with.”

“I don’t see why it should take any longer than we have planned,” Seung-gil counters.

“Which is how long?” his mother asks. “An afternoon?”

“A day,” he says. “There are only six of you since grandmother is busy. We could have finished this in ten minutes over a video chat, but Phichit wanted to meet in person.”

This, apparently, Phichit understood, and he nods with a wry smile. “I’m happy to visit here,” Phichit tells Seung-gil’s parents in shaky Korean.

They seem swayed from their disappointment in Seung-gil by Phichit’s polite tone, and their eyes shift to him with what looks to Seung-gil like an instinctive fondness.

“We’re happy you could visit,” Seung-gil’s mother responds in Korean.

Seung-gil’s father pins him with a sharp glance and says, “Please go visit your oldest brother next.”

Phichit says, “We will,” and ignores the incredulous eyes Seung-gil is boring into him.

•

“Your parents are just trying to keep everyone happy,” Phichit says as Seung-gil shuts the door of the taxi behind them.

Seung-gil gives the driver his apartment’s address and sinks into the seat with a world-weary sigh. “Okay,” he says. It’s about all the English he feels capable of right now.

He’s been home less than three hours and he already wants to go back to Thailand.

The taxi gradually builds up speed, and Phichit waves eagerly to Seung-gil’s parents framed in their doorway as they fade from view. The removal of them from sight cuts Seung-gil’s strings and he sinks down lower. All he has to do now is go home, clean, maybe make out with Phichit for a while, and then go get his roommate back from Dae-sung.

“Seung-gil,” Phichit sings.

“What.”

“ _Seung-gil_.”

“What.”

Inexplicably, Phichit thumbs his forehead. Seung-gil regards him with mild confusion until Phichit grins. “You were making this face,” he says, and pulls a truly exaggerated sullen face that in no way matches any face Seung-gil has ever made.

“Mm,” he says.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Phichit allows his hand to ghost the side of Seung-gil’s face and asks, “Are you okay?”

Seung-gil threads his fingers through his hair, his spine objecting to the various contortions it’s been called upon to oblige, and sighs until his lungs are empty. “Fine,” he says. Their driver is probably listening, after all.

Phichit doesn’t push.

•

When they arrive at Seung-gil’s apartment, they find Hae-il asleep in the living room. He’s flat on his stomach, with one leg hanging off the edge, one sock half-off, and black dress shirt sleeves tied around his neck while the rest of the shirt’s fabric conceals his naked torso.

“Hey,” Seung-gil says to him, slightly offended, “your apartment is _in the building_. Why are you on my sofa?”

Phichit takes a photo and winks when Seung-gil looks to him for an explanation. The explanation seems to be simply “he looks funny” or some variation on that theme.

They unpack quickly, and Seung-gil leaves a post-it note to Hae-il’s forehead that says, [Empty the fridge if you want to repay me for the sofa you’re staining with your drool.]

•

The moment after Dae-sung’s oldest daughter opens the door, Sunja torpedoes Seung-gil’s chest. Seung-gil crashes directly into Phichit, naturally, who has to grab onto a column to keep from falling and laughs.

Sunja licks his face and whines low in her chest and dances anxiously about on all four paws, her wildly wagging tail beating Seung-gil’s niece repeatedly in the arm.

“You,” he whispers to her, “are the only one allowed to come back to Thailand with us,” and means it.

Phichit does a very poor job of hiding his laughter behind his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY TUESDAY/WEDNESDAY, EVERYONE. ♡
> 
> Sooo, if you've even peeked at my Twitter in the last few days you'll see my heart was fiendishly ransacked over the weekend by a Japanese drama called おっさんずラブ (Ossan's Love). I was super skeptical of it at first based on the summary (straight man is hopeless at everything and is suddenly romantically pursued by his gay roommate and his middle-aged boss) _but_ I watched the last episode when it aired just because so many were losing their _minds_ over it on Twitter including people whose taste I trust, so I tuned in partway into the last episode and kind of fell in tentative love, enough to decide to marathon it with a friend I was visiting in Nagoya. SO WE DID THAT and basically I fell far, far behind on this chapter as a result. (Also, whatever summary I read isn't...at all...like...Haruta never says he's straight? No one uses sexuality labels at all? If anything, he's probably pan/bi. WHICH IS RARE. You almost never see pan/bi characters in Japanese dramas. We're still considered a rare breed over here, sadly.)
> 
> ANYWAY you've all been very patient with delays before, and I know I'm not _obligated_ to stick to the arbitrary weekly deadline I've set for myself, but I do take it seriously—in part to train myself to stick to my writing deadlines. ;D
> 
> SO this is a very long-winded excuse followed by a sincere apology for the wait. ♡
> 
> ...I'd also like to recommend the drama because NGK it's so good and I just...have a lot of feelings and I'd love the fandom to grow because MAKI RYOTA IS AN ANGEL AND I WILL PROTECT HIM WITH MANY SWORDS ON FIRE. ... See? See? This is a problem.
> 
> AND THIS IS THE LONGEST CHAPTER NOTE YET AND IT'S MOSTLY ABOUT THE DAMN DRAMA FUCK THIS DRAMA (no it's fine it's not the drama's fault jeez calm down aaaaagh my poor owned soul).
> 
> EDIT: Also! I’m commissioning art for this series, but I can’t decide on a pose for them, so if you have any scenes you’d like to see art’d, please help me out with ideas! :D


	23. February 9th-12th, 2018

In the first four days of Seung-gil’s first Olympic Games, there are four moments that reshape the rest of his career.

•

The first two are at breakfast on the first day.

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed feeling sluggish until the memories of where he is and why pour in with icy clarity. Despite the suspense building incrementally over the years and the last several days spent thinking only about the Games, suddenly the reality is taking shape in his head.

And it’s…

Opaque.

For all the crowded months, weeks, and days he’s pushed through to get to this day, the next two weeks might as well be a thread stretched out before him compared to the mountains behind.

All he has to do is skate. That’s it.

It’s all he wanted: simplicity.

But thinking of that doesn’t bring him the cool relief he expected it to.

His roommate—an alpine skier from Gwangju—is already gone (“I probably won’t be in here all that much, to be honest, so feel free to sprawl out if you want”) even though it’s barely five thirty. With few exceptions, Seung-gil usually takes a day or so to adjust to a new bed, so he’s surprised he didn’t hear the guy leave.

Even though he feels wide awake, opening the curtains treats Seung-gil to a moment of hissing and flinching back from the siren glare of the sun off the snow. In the square below, heavily jacketed athletes prowl around at a sluggish pace, and as Seung-gil studies the uncoordinated scene playing out, someone with a long black ponytail (the Italian skater?) darts out from another building and jumps onto the back of someone taller with a red asymmetrical cut (definitely the Russian).

The Russian’s entourage pause a few strides ahead as she spins the Italian around and around. Their laughter bounces off the walls of the surrounding buildings while the group make frantic attempts to shush them.

With or without their help, though, the Olympic Village is waking up.

Seung-gil picks up his phone off the bedside table and finds it stocked with messages. Undeterred, Seung-gil skips down to Phichit’s name and opens their chat.

[I. Am. Hungry!!]

Seung-gil puffs a laugh through his nose and checks the timestamp. Surely Phichit hasn’t done anything drastic or eaten any part of his room in the twelve minutes since he sent this.

[Cafeteria?]

[YES.]

Breakfast, just like lunch and dinner the day before, is an intense affair. Once again, Phichit seems dazed by all the options before them, and he doesn’t even pick up a tray until he’s made two full laps around all the food on offer. Seung-gil, meanwhile, gets lost in the vegan area for thirty seconds. When he manages to escape, he piles a plate with fried chicken out of spite.

The two of them sit at random with a Lithuanian speed skater, two Danish snowboarders, and a Jamaican freestyle skier. Within six minutes Phichit’s managed to post a photo of them all on Instagram, humming like he’s been awake for hours. (He hasn’t. He was sending Seung-gil Olympics memes until three in the morning—if the app’s timestamps are to be believed.)

Seung-gil’s tearing through his fourth pork dumpling when one of the snowboarders glances up from her phone and says in English, “There are a lot of comments about you guys. You two are dating?”

Seung-gil doesn’t think his surprise shows on his face, but he’s still relieved that he’s looking down at his plate when she asks. Phichit, meanwhile, says, “Umm,” and then laughs with pure uncertainty.

“Oh,” the skier says, “you have those kinds of fans? They want you to date? Like the fans of those two other skaters. The Russian and the Japanese one.”

“I thought they were married?” the speed skater says.

Phichit quickly and expertly manages to steer them on to something else without revealing anything, but Seung-gil feels an odd, indistinct stab somewhere. For the first time since he decided to fly to France on an impulsive, terrified whim to ask out the boy he desperately liked, he wonders, _What does it matter who knows?_

All the same cons that applied before still apply, plus the weighted realization that in addition to the press who cling to every misstep in his athletic career now, there’ll be an even larger dose of an even less scrupulous group trying to pry their way into the bare structure of the relationship he’s only barely begun to relax into.

The fans he scrupulously avoids are one thing—and they’ve been suspiciously well behaved since he got back to to South Korea—but the press have much broader access to him _and_ Phichit. The thought of fielding playful questions about his private life during post-competition interviews when he’s focused on scores and mistakes and corrections is enough to put a sour slant on the sudden pounding in his head.

He drinks down the rest of his juice to have an excuse to leave the table to go get more, and he feels Phichit watching him as he stands and leaves.

Lingering in front of the drink fountain, Seung-gil notices Katsuki enter the cafeteria by himself and walk past a pair of Spanish ice dancers who greet him with bubbly enthusiasm. On close inspection as Katsuki approaches, Seung-gil thinks the guy looks exhausted.

To his own surprise, he says, “Katsuki,” and then asks himself what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

Katsuki’s head swivels up like it’s been pulled by a string. “Oh,” he says, quiet. “Seung-gil. Good morning.”

Seung-gil nods.

Katsuki glances off to the side, then drops his gaze altogether. Every element of his body language shouts discomfort.

Well.

Um.

“ _Yuu_ ri!”

Seung-gil vows to gift Phichit twelve of his favorite stamp sets at the earliest possible opportunity.

The arrival of an actual friend eases Katsuki’s body from the coiled spring it was, and he even drags together a smile when Phichit grabs his biceps and shakes him with affection. “Yuuri!” Phichit crows. “ _We’re at the Olympics!_ ”

The words almost shimmer when Phichit says them—just the truth of them dipped in gold and precious to receive. Seung-gil brings his cup to his lips and wonders why it doesn’t mean as much to him. If it’d mean more in four years, if he came back. How many opportunities will he have, realistically?

Is he already wasting this one by seeing it as a test of fortitude rather than a…a…

_What is this, even, to everyone else?_

“I’m sorry you can’t participate today,” Katsuki says to Phichit.

“It’s fine!” Phichit says, waving his hand. “Italy’s not in the team skate either, so Sara and I are going to watch together. We’ll be well-rested,” he adds with a wicked smile. “The rest of you better watch out.”

Katsuki’s smile has an odd, wistful twist to it, and Seung-gil is a little startled that he can recognize it.

Despite their silent but emphatic objections, Phichit persuades Seung-gil and Katsuki to take a round of Olympic selfies with him. To Seung-gil’s surprise (and—if he’s honest—betrayal), Katsuki loosens up little by little and actually poses for the last two. Seung-gil, accustomed to impromptu photoshoots but still deeply uninterested in the process, doesn’t do anything. When Phichit cycles through the shots, Katsuki peers over one shoulder and Seung-gil over the other.

“Wow, Seung-gil,” Katsuki says. “You look so cool.”

Seung-gil frowns. He does? He cups Phichit’s hand and draws the phone up, closer to his face.

“I picked out his shirt,” Phichit says with pride. “I snuck it into his suitcase.”

He did? Seung-gil directs his frown down at the shirt he’s wearing, bemused. To be fair, he wouldn’t recognize the difference between a shirt he picked out himself, a shirt his mother bought him in high school, and a shirt he took from a stranger by accident.

“Thank you?” he says, still a little lost.

Phichit smiles at him over his shoulder.

When they return to their table with Katsuki in tow, the Danes are gone, replaced by an American hockey player who offers up a name Seung-gil immediately forgets. Not that it matters; he’s more interested in her demeanor. She has Phichit’s enthusiasm for the Games, and when she mentions her experiences in “the last two Olympics”, Seung-gil is truly floored. How can she still carry the glow and sparkle of someone brand new to the experience when she has two under her belt?

The freestyle skier and the speed skater, on the other hand, are much younger. The skier is an eager chatterbox, and the skater exudes awe in every furtive glance she passes around the cafeteria. While Seung-gil concentrates on his food, a laugh rises from most of them when Phichit shares the Swiss team’s plans to carry Giacometti over their heads like a lounging emperor during the opening ceremony.

“What’s it like?” the skier asks the hockey player with bright-eyed enthusiasm.

“The opening ceremony?” The hockey player stretches her arms over her head with a satisfied, lazy smile. “It’s great. I’ll never forget my first one. I didn’t even think I’d _be_ there. My season was all over the place, and I was honestly considering quitting.”

Seung-gil lifts his head.

“Why’d you stay?” the skier asks. “I thought about quitting too after I fractured my leg last year.”

The hockey player winces. “Yeah, rehab was a bitch when I dislocated my knee. Nah, it was just, like…I lost all my love for the sport. I didn’t remember why I was doing it anymore. I didn’t want to lose my youth to practice and games and just—it was neverending, but it also has a very definite time limit, so I was like, ‘Why don’t I just beat myself to the punch? Before I end up irreparably injuring myself forever or I have to retire and my chance at a career is fucked over.’”

Seung-gil knows he’s staring, can feel the telltale sensation of Phichit looking at him, but he’s thoroughly drawn in.

“I kept going because…”

Perhaps because no one is giving her their undivided attention like Seung-gil is right now, she offers him direct eye contact and a wry smile.

“Quitting would have been a bigger pain in the ass than staying.”

The skater laughs, and the skier says, “That’s a terrible reason,” and the hockey player claps with delight and pushes her chair so it’s balanced on its back two legs. Katsuki doesn’t seem like he heard any of it, fixated on his phone screen, and under the table Phichit runs his thumb over Seung-gil’s knee.

Seung-gil pretends not to feel it and diverts his attention back to his food. He can’t decide if he was actually expecting something inspiring from a _hockey player_ , but…the pit in his stomach has definitely swollen into something he can’t ignore.

He follows Phichit and Katsuki into the courtyard, taking the frigid gust of wind to the face with a sigh of stale familiarity. Phichit loops his left arm around Katsuki and his right around Seung-gil and lifts his feet off the ground, letting them carry him for a few paces with a giddy laugh. The bulkiness of Phichit’s jacket seems more like a challenge to him than a true obstacle, and Katsuki seems just as amused by his attempts at mobility as Seung-gil feels.

As they approach the dorms where the Russians are staying—“I better go up and wake Viktor since he won’t answer his phone”—Phichit gives Seung-gil an unreadable look before turning a more concerned face toward Katsuki. “Are you okay, Yuuri?” he asks.

Seung-gil finds himself interested in the answer.

Especially when Katsuki doesn’t immediately present one.

Katsuki’s eyes don’t stray from the dorm, and his eventual, “I’m fine,” doesn’t sound convincing.

Seung-gil’s competitive drive spikes without warning and Seung-gil wonders if the odd mood Katsuki’s in will be a help or a hindrance to his skating.

As a skater, Katsuki’s always been a force, and he’s only gotten more consistent since Nikiforov started coaching him two years ago. Long before Katsuki joined the senior division, he was on Seung-gil’s radar as a competitor. His skill in step sequence put him in direct opposition to Seung-gil, and the added recent confidence in his approach to performing has put him on a much higher level.

But the only adjective Seung-gil can think of to describe Katsuki on a personal level is “quiet”, and it certainly fits with what Katsuki’s demonstrating now.

Phichit opens his mouth, probably to pry, but Katsuki ducks out from under his arm and says, “I’ll see you both at the rink?” He hurries into his building having probably barely heard Phichit’s vague, “Okay,” or seen Seung-gil’s hand raised in farewell.

“That was weird, wasn’t it?” Phichit says. “Maybe he’s nervous.”

Seung-gil says, “Most of us are, deep down,” in his own language, and Phichit does him the favor of absently replying, “Mm, that’s true,” in Korean as well.

•

They pass several people on their way to the dorm hosting the South Korean athletes, and quite a few of them eyeball the narrow space between him and Phichit with amusement. There’s a smirking implication in their silent regard that rankles Seung-gil, like they somehow know about the platonic facade Seung-gil’s insisted on all this time and are laughing at it, so he walks closer to Phichit. He draws the line at taking Phichit’s hand, but he knows there can be very little room for misinterpretation now—he won’t tell anyone what isn’t their business, but he’s not going to hide anymore.

Phichit bumps his shoulder and says, “Can you be less cute about showing off? It shouldn’t be this charming.”

Seung-gil says, “No thank you,” in Thai and bumps him back.

By the time Phichit’s dragged him back into bed, his nerves have settled to a manageable level, and he thinks he’ll be fine until he actually has to skate.

•

The third is a blur, but it takes a more defined shape in Seung-gil’s memories.

On the second night, curled against Phichit’s back with his mouth to the sweat-beaded slope of Phichit’s shoulder, Seung-gil calls it all back and relives it in pieces.

As the only men’s singles skater for South Korea, he’s been slated and expected to skate in both the short and the free, three days apart. Without giving it too much thought, he decided to do his short and free on the corresponding days.

The moment his blade glanced the ice for the short, the noise from the crowd amplified to a nearly unbearable pitch.

He closed his eyes as he took the first curve and let the cheers melt into vague, indistinct pastel, an unnoticeable stain in the background.

A parallel set of powerful, deafening, nameless emotions rendered time incomprehensible and carried him swiftly through his warmup, leaving him in his starting pose with his heart climbing out of his throat.

The world, he realized in a paralyzing instant, would be satisfied.

If he failed, if he succeeded….

 _The media will build a narrative,_ he thought, and pushed into his first steady glide.

_They have the groundwork laid already._

_Strict coach drives her skater to failure._

_Renegade skater healed by new coach._

_Whatever I do,_ he told himself, raising his arm and engaging his core for stability, _I have no influence over the way they choose to tell the story._

_Over how Min-so sees it._

_Or Celestino._

_Or Phichit._

_No one will see this as it is._

He pushed into his first quad.

_Not even me._

In the dark of his hotel room, with the curtains parted and snow winding through beams of light outside, with Phichit content and almost asleep beside him, Seung-gil decides, _Fuck it,_ without really knowing what he’s throwing away.

It’s a necessary loss, whatever it was.

•

The fourth—and by far the most memorable—sweeps the legs out from under the entire skating community.

The free skate is scheduled to begin at ten, and Seung-gil barely manages to sleep more than a handful of hours beforehand. Adrenaline keeps him awake and energized, to his relief, but he doesn’t think he’s had a clear thought all morning. He’s running on the same backup energy that’s been assisting him through countless press conferences and one-on-one interviews as well as Phichit’s rampant need for a thousand selfies per hour.

His skate is over quickly, and he doesn’t wake up from his stupor until Celestino shakes him in the kiss and cry. His score puts him narrowly ahead of the loud Canadian and .5 behind Leo, who’s hanging onto first.

On the ice, Katsuki’s already warming up, and certain sections of the crowd are very excited about it.

Celestino grips his elbow and offers him a small smile as they stand. “How do you feel about it?” he asks.

Aware of the cameras, Seung-gil says, “Good,” and takes note of the way Celestino’s cordial expression changes from professional to _we’ll be discussing things later_.

Since Phichit is still watching everything in the stands with Sara, Seung-gil wanders off in search of the place he officially belongs: with his team.

They’ve been assigned a sizable space to rest and stretch and warm up, so they’re not difficult to find.

Ji-na, Da-young, and two pairs make up the rest of South Korea’s national representation, and it seems to Seung-gil that they’re all fairly close. Ji-na and Da-young keep tickling each other under the jaw whenever the cameras come by, the Song twins have several in-jokes with the others, and the venerated Park-Cho pair have a tendency to team up and mother everyone else on the team. Soo-hye massages Seung-gil’s neck after he’s pulled himself out of a split, and Yoon-ah tucks his wet hair behind his ear and hands him a bottle of tea.

Once or twice, one of the others will sling an arm around his shoulders or offer him a friendly word, but he’s too firmly fixed in the competition mindset to react. Strangely, he doesn’t mind it, and he thinks even if he were relaxed he wouldn’t turn away the kind gestures. That’s what they are, after all, right? Kind?

He offers respectful nods to the cameras, and combined with his teammates being willing to put in extra face time, that seems to keep the media contingent content.

With Plisetsky’s skate already taken care of in the short, Nikiforov is scheduled to do the free.

Ji-na, a hardened veteran fangirl of the Russian team in general, yells, “SILENCE!” as Nikiforov winds a deceptively lazy circle around the ice.

Seung-gil takes a sip of tea, unimpressed with her devotion.

Nikiforov, on the other hand, from the seemingly careless grace with which he moves to the absolute control over his jumps and spins, isn’t only worthy of attention, he _commands_ it.

Seung-gil caps his bottle and pulls his knees up under his chin to watch.

To his left, Ji-na bounces on her heels, and to his right, one of the the Song twins covers his mouth with breathless anticipation.

Not for the first time, Seung-gil wonders how Katsuki can stand being married to a man the world has proclaimed a living legend.

Nikiforov’s program is masterful. He chose his free skate to perform, and it is, in every way, a performance. He skates with deceptive abandon, his small, coy smiles spreading wider and wider as the music builds from a simple, playful melody to truly orchestral joy.

He never errs, never missteps, and Seung-gil calculates his score with deep envy and even deeper admiration.

Even Nikiforov’s closing bow is a thing of beauty.

Most of it, Seung-gil knows, is a lifetime of hard work. But there’s also a sizable chunk of raw charisma…and comfort with himself as a person. As a skater.

On his way off the ice, Nikiforov scoops up a pig plush with telltale blue glasses and gives the crowd a delighted smile, character thoroughly broken. He hugs it in the kiss and cry, waving its little leg at the nearest camera. “Poor Yuuri,” Da-young giggles. “He’s going to become a meme again.”

On screen, Feltsman pretends he doesn’t know what Nikiforov is doing, his eyes up and presumably fixed on the place where Nikiforov’s score will be.

“He might’ve broken the record again,” Ji-na says, shaking Seung-gil by the arm.

He pries her fingers off one at a time, nose wrinkled.

To no one’s surprise, Viktor Nikiforov breaks the record (also held by him) and Seung-gil announces, “They’ve won,” even though the ladies single and ice dance remain. Mathematically, the Russian team has an unbeatable lead.

The rest of his team, rather than argue with him as he expects, deflate with a collective groan.

When he sends Ji-na a baffled look, she says, “You and the math,” as an explanation. “We believe you.”

The idea that they know that about him—know _anything_ about him—catches him off-guard enough that he almost misses the moment that sets the rest of the world into fiery contention.

Nikiforov, eyes on the floor of the kiss and cry, smiles slow and mysterious to himself. It’s shifted into something more presentable when he looks up, but the impact is made.

“What was that face about?” Da-young asks the room, and gets no answer.

•

The Japanese accept bronze, the Canadians accept silver, and the Russians proudly (and in a few cases: smugly) accept gold.

Plisetsky tips his chin up during the national anthem, pursing his lips like he’s staving back tears, and the redhead next to him rubs his shoulder like a fond older sister. Nikiforov’s countenance is pure photogenic perfection. The rest smile and pick up the medals resting on their chests and gaze at them with childlike wonder.

That should be all for the day.

Team event wrapped up. Time to focus on the individual competition. The short in four days, the free in five.

But it’s not.

•

The video goes up at nine o’clock exactly while Phichit is licking a stripe up Seung-gil’s inner thigh, so they don’t see it until half past ten when the video’s racked up thousands upon thousands of views and dozens of publications are racing each other to cover the contents.

Phichit, still hazy from two back-to-back orgasms, yawns at his phone and says, “Something’s up with Viktor. I’m just gonna FaceTime Yuuri.”

Seung-gil thumbs over his collarbone, barely listening. He wonders how opposed Phichit would be to staying in this room for the rest of the Olympics. His country’s government might break down the door to make him skate, but he’d be willing to take that chance. Phichit’s got a bag of sex toys they still haven’t had the opportunity to use, and Seung-gil’s competitive nature could easily be nudged in that direction instead.

Katsuki doesn’t answer Phichit’s call, so Seung-gil deems it safe to close his mouth over one of Phichit’s peaked nipples. He thinks he can be forgiven for assuming the choked noise Phichit makes is in response to that.

But then Phichit yells, “Viktor’s not competing!” and Seung-gil widens his eyes.

He also closes his mouth, but leaves it pressed to Phichit’s skin.

It’s an easy video to track down even without Phichit already following the man on every single social media platform in which Nikiforov participates. Phichit’s fans have also sent him the link on every platform, and Sara’s sent him an additional a message in Italian—in all caps.

Nikiforov must have had the video professionally made, or else he’s much more versatilely skilled than Seung-gil has ever given him credit for. It begins with a highlight reel of Nikiforov’s past Olympic programs, followed by footage from his skate today. The music is familiar—probably also something from Nikiforov’s past—and it cuts just before fading to Nikiforov himself, dressed in his team jacket with the Russian flag on the wall behind him. Seung-gil wonders if he thinks the Japanese flag pinned to his lapel is subtle.

“Hello, everyone,” Nikiforov says, pressing a kiss to two fingers with a wink. “My name is Viktor Nikiforov, and I have been a figure skater for—”

“Is he _retiring?_ ”

“Seung-gil, sh!”

“I have decided for both personal and professional reasons to step down from the rest of this year’s Olympic Games. I will of course continue my role as Katsuki Yuuri’s coach, but I have formally withdrawn my name from—”

“Can he do that?” Phichit squawks.

“What? Refuse to skate?”

“He—he already started! They won gold! What personal reasons? _What’s happening? YUURI, PICK UP YOUR PHONE._ ”

Since Phichit’s phone is occupied with futile calls, Seung-gil blinks up at the ceiling and remembers Katsuki’s unusually somber mood days ago. He must’ve known.

Nikiforov went to great pains in the video to stress that he wasn’t retiring, but this, Seung-gil assumes, must be his first long stride toward the exit of his illustrious legacy. He signs off in the video with a cheeky, “Sayonara,” and a salute.

•

_The Russians will take home gold for the team skate, Viktor Nikiforov’s bowed out of the Olympics with a winning smile, and N O T H I N G MAKES SENSE!!!!_

Phichit offers his phone to Seung-gil with expectant eyebrows, and Seung-gil only has to scan the caption to Phichit’s shocked selfie once to agree with a vehement nod.

“I guess I can’t quit now,” Seung-gil says, half-serious. “The ISU might have me killed.”

Phichit kneels on the bed behind him, kisses his ear, and squeezes him around the waist. “Probably.”

Nothing makes sense.

But in Seung-gil’s experience, nothing ever has.

There’s an odd sort of comfort in that, isn’t there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHELP. As wild as this is going to sound—if you didn't hop over to Twitter at any point during the past two weeks, that is—I outright missed my first weekly update since I started Feathers back in August due to an earthquake. It hit the city next to mine, and it was more of a terrifying experience than anything else, but it did rattle me out of my usual, uh, creative headspace for quite a while. I think the break was good, though, since I'm on the last few chapters! The home stretch! And they deserve a focused mind. ;)
> 
> Thank you everyone for always being so patient and so very kind. ♡


	24. February 6th-7th, 2018

When Seung-gil was thirteen, he caught pneumonia, trained anyway, and wound up in the hospital. He doesn’t remember the incident clearly, but he’s been told (many times) that he arrived at the rink looking paler than usual, insisted he was fine, and made it through about five minutes of warming up before he collapsed right in front of Tae-woo, who shouted in shock and jumped over him. Jung-oh told him that last part, and everyone else confirmed it with exasperated sighs.

Seung-gil woke up in a private room with his mother sitting in a chair by the left side of his bed, and Min-so standing by the railing of the right side. After the doctor delivered the relevant details of his condition (fever, rest, observation), he left. Neither Seung-gil’s mother nor Min-so spoke to each other, and Seung-gil didn’t speak at all.

Finally, after a sizable eternity of uncomfortable silence, Min-so announced to the door that she had to get going. She told Seung-gil she was pleased with the depth of his motivation, and added, “Your determination is one of your greatest strengths,” with a squeeze of his arm. “This was a good lesson in understanding your limits. But I’m proud of you. We’ll be waiting for you at practice.”

Seung-gil nodded.

Once Min-so left, Seung-gil’s mother stood up and cupped his face between her palms. “Your _limit_ isn’t when your body gives up,” she told him. “It’s sending you signals to you _long_ before it gets to that point, and you need to learn how to recognize those signals if you’re going to have a long _and healthy_ career. Do you understand? Seung-gil. I….”

He doesn’t know what her expression looked like. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and so he couldn’t see her face clearly.

She didn’t say anything more. She wiped through the sweat on his forehead with a cool, damp face towel until he fell asleep, but he remembers the last conscious thought he had before sleep took him:

_Viktor Nikiforov wouldn’t have stopped, either._

•

Sara calls Phichit. They scream at each other for a while until Mila bursts into Sara’s room accompanied by some young guy who is an equal in loudness to both Sara and Phichit.

After they hang up, Phichit calls Supatra. He screams at her, and she screams back, but she also sends a message brimming with question marks to Seung-gil, and he explains the situation in the briefest possible terms. She sends back a thumbs-up and continues her screaming with context.

While this tempest is going on, Leo and Guang Hong call Phichit from Leo’s room, but as Phichit is still on with Supatra, they can’t get through. So they call Seung-gil next. For reasons Seung-gil does not understand but will readily blame on Phichit, he answers their call, and a very confusing and interruption-heavy five minutes ensues between Phichit trying to scream at two phones at once, and the occupants of both phone screens being introduced to each other.

When the screaming is finished, Phichit calls Katsuki three more times. He’s ultimately unsuccessful, so he flops onto Seung-gil’s lap to whine, most of his energy spent.

Seung-gil does his part by petting Phichit’s chest. Watching him spend the last hour tangled in and creating turmoil amongst his friends has been a convenient distraction from his own thoughts and feelings on the subject, but Phichit’s need to vent seems to be over now.

Then Phichit accuses, “You said,” and points directly at Seung-gil’s nose.

Seung-gil blinks back at him. Then he gamely closes the distance between his nose and Phichit’s fingertip.

Phichit presses into it with intent. “ _You said_ Viktor was aiming for the Olympics. Months ago. You said.”

Mm. He probably did say that.

Seung-gil tips his chin up to kiss Phichit’s fingertip. “I don’t speak English,” he says in Korean.

Phichit squawks.

Seung-gil vaguely remembers the conversation Phichit’s talking about, and the part of it he remembers most clearly is, in fact, the part where he said Nikiforov wasn’t truly focused on the GPF because he had the Olympics prioritized more highly. Seung-gil’s tempted to point out that it certainly seemed that way at the time.

For the last couple of years, Nikiforov’s career has been so tightly tied to Katsuki’s that even their individual interviews are interlocked. The two of them are masterful at dodging personal questions, but they tend to spill more than they mean to when asked about each other. It gives insights into their motivations that can’t be gleaned through other channels.

“Viktor has been in a class of his own making ever since he was in the junior division,” Katsuki said to a Japanese journalist following one of the GPF events earlier this season. “I don’t ever see that changing. His artistry is timeless. Figure skating will never see another athlete like him. I think this season is his opportunity to stun the world with his utmost.”

Meanwhile, in a pre-Olympics documentary, Nikiforov said of Katsuki, “On the ice, my Yuuri creates what no one else can. What attention he doesn’t already have from his audience, he takes. His presence is commanding, but he still doesn’t know the charisma he has. Once he taps into his full potential, every program of his will shine without peer.”

Going off these interviews and others like them—not to mention where Katsuki and Nikiforov stand in their respective careers—Seung-gil assumed that Katsuki just wanted gold in any form, from any competition, and that Nikiforov mainly wanted to protect his legacy now that he’s reaching the end of his competitive career. Nikiforov has one Olympic gold medal, and this is realistically his last chance for a second. It made sense at the time that he would focus on this.

“I guess something changed,” Seung-gil says.

Phichit’s gaze moves away, and Seung-gil notices for the first time since Phichit stopped moving that he seems genuinely unsettled.

“Why are you so upset?” he asks.

Phichit meets his eyes, and his face gradually relaxes and exposes more of what he’s feeling. “I was excited,” he says. “This is my first Olympics, and…I was excited to see him skate. I was excited to see him at practice. I was just…really excited.” He turns his face and presses it against Seung-gil’s stomach. “What do you think is happening?”

It’s a challenge not to say exactly what he thinks, because he’s accustomed to it. He’s spent his entire life without filters, and while it’s cost him some comfort in social situations, he’s never experienced the guilt of lying by omission that people talk about. Phichit usually allows his bluntness, even encourages it, but there’s a curious nudge inside him this time that tells him to change tactics. Just this once.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” he says. “Katsuki probably isn’t answering because he’s asleep. Or having sex.”

The last bit has its intended effect. Phichit snorts with laughter and peers up at Seung-gil with a grin.

“We could do that, too,” he points out.

Seung-gil nods, holding on to his solemnity with some struggle. “We could,” he says, and pretends to be surprised when Phichit hooks an arm around his neck with intent.

•

By the age of fourteen, Seung-gil knew all of Nikiforov’s programs by heart, and he could skate the majority of them well enough to half-satisfy himself.

By fifteen, he picked out a quad he’d never seen Nikiforov—or anyone—land in competition and decided he would be the first.

By seventeen, he’d lost the sense of fun in copying other skaters’ routines.

By eighteen, he was still watching Phichit’s programs regularly and often bookmarked the more memorable performances to rewatch later.

By twenty, he’d met Nikiforov a total of once, and the impression left on Seung-gil was of someone charming but almost vacant.

By twenty-one, he’d met Nikiforov six more times, but if someone were to ask Seung-gil the number, he wouldn’t have been able to recall.

Now, at twenty-two, he’s facing an Olympic Games without Viktor Nikiforov to comfortably sail through and catch a gold medal at the end as an afterthought.

Having Nikiforov out…it changes everything.

Doesn’t it?

•

“What are you thinking about?” Phichit asks. He combs his fingers through the sweat-damp roots of Seung-gil’s hair and tugs him closer for another kiss.

It’s the tug that tells Seung-gil that he could say anything from “battery acid” to “the etymology of etymology”, and Phichit would take at least thirty seconds to process the answer.

Fortunately, Seung-gil doesn’t have to say anything at all, because Phichit is already touching their lips together, and the sound Phichit makes on contact is just salacious enough to affect the speed at which Seung-gil’s mind is moving.

Phichit will let him think, Seung-gil realizes, as long as he can do this at the same time.

Challenge accepted.

•

In Bangkok, Celestino often brought up other skaters as reference points. He used Guang Hong’s latest exhibition choreography to explain a change he wanted to make in Seung-gil’s program, explained a quirk in Seung-gil’s approach to his quad toe loop by using the Czech skater Nekola as a better example to follow, and recommended an older program Katsuki did in juniors for no obvious reason. As Celestino said, “It’s not for the technical element,” but there wasn’t much of _any_ element to be found in the video, as far as Seung-gil could tell.

Compared to Min-so—who rarely mentioned Seung-gil’s contemporaries in any light but a purely competitive one—Celestino is fairly egalitarian in his coaching style.

In those same Bangkok practices, however, Celestino often lauded Nikiforov as an exemplary figure skater while recommending zero percent of Nikiforov’s various techniques in both skating and coaching.

When Seung-gil pointed this out, Celestino said, “What he does works for himself and for Yuuri. We’re focused on finding what’s right for _you_.”

Seung-gil almost said, “Figures work for me,” but he didn’t.

He knows that in the competitive world—the world Viktor Nikiforov helped to sculpt—figures barely merit half the focus it requires to make one, let alone enough clout to boost his score in any significant way. Mentioning them won’t help him in any significant way, either.

He’s heard it time and time again, but thinking of the kind of program he _wants_ to do while Phichit nuzzles his neck, Seung-gil silently agrees:

He belongs in a much earlier era of figure skating, when compulsory figures were appreciated for their craftsmanship, and the skater who made them valued for their finely-tempered skill.

•

Katsuki doesn’t seem surprised to see Phichit standing in front of his hotel room door, and he even offers Seung-gil a small nod as if his presence isn’t unexpected, either. “You saw the video,” Katsuki says.

The noise Phichit makes isn’t quite intelligible, but it does the job of affirmation well enough to count, as far as Seung-gil’s concerned.

The room behind Katsuki is empty, but there are signs that it’s been recently occupied by two. Seung-gil is tempted to tell Katsuki that he’s opposed to this late-night ambush on principle, and that he’s only here because Phichit is devious and told Seung-gil they were going to the cafeteria for Post-Coital Snacks, and by the time Phichit had dashed into the dormitory assigned to the Japanese athletes, it was too late for Seung-gil to launch a convincing campaign against the whole idea.

But it would take too many words, and it’s late, and Seung-gil doesn’t like English in his most conscious of states, and Katsuki doesn’t appear upset by the intrusion, so Seung-gil just follows Phichit into Katsuki’s room.

They wind up sitting on the floor, the three of them, Katsuki with his back against one of the beds, and Phichit and Seung-gil facing him and the curtained-off window beyond.

Katsuki’s face seems smoother, less agitated than it was at breakfast days ago, but the atmosphere in the room is decidedly different from how Seung-gil’s room felt with just him and Phichit in it.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says in a low whine, “what’s going _on_? People online are losing their minds! Is he sick? Hurt?”

“He said it was personal,” Seung-gil murmurs. He glances sideways at Phichit with emphatic eyes.

“Yeah!” Phichit says. “What were the personal reasons?”

Seung-gil opens his mouth, closes it, and says, “That’s…not what I—”

“Why would he drop out like that?” Phichit barrels on. His eyes are wide, his fingers gripped around his knees, and he’s staring at Katsuki with such trust and earnestness that it’s easy to imagine him five years younger, eager and willing to fight for Katsuki’s friendship and attention. “I read some rumors but they all sounded crazy, and—”

Katsuki says, “I asked him to,” but Phichit doesn’t seem to hear.

Seung-gil did, however, and when Katsuki takes a breath, probably to repeat himself, Seung-gil covers Phichit’s left fist to stop his stream of words.

Into the startled silence that follows, Katsuki says again, “I asked him to.”

Seung-gil could take his hand away now, but he decides not to. Phichit’s face is a vivid portrait of shock, and Katsuki isn’t finished yet. There’s probably more to prepare for.

“This has to stay private,” Katsuki says. It’s a neutral statement with no direct emphasis on either of them, but it’s clear that he’s talking to one of them more than the other.

Which is, in all honesty, fair. If Seung-gil hadn’t seen for himself that Phichit has developed the self-restraint needed to keep things like their relationship under wraps as long as he has, he’d be cautious, too.

When Phichit smiles sheepishly and offers no self-defense, Seung-gil feels compelled to say, “He can keep a secret,” with a squeeze of Phichit’s fingers. He waits until Phichit turns a soft smile on him to add, “Now,” and doesn’t move his arm out of the way of the chiding smack it gets.

Katsuki regards both of them for a suspended moment, then purses his lips against a smile and nods. He’s sitting cross-legged, his hands loosely clasped over his ankles. Seung-gil recognizes himself in the way Katsuki’s eyes wander the floor while his mind works over and through foreign vocabulary words for the best fi to what he wants to say.

“Viktor,” Katsuki says, “has had some injuries over the last year. Minor ones. They never make the news. His PR team keeps them all private, and he skates anyway. He says he just ‘makes sure not to fall’ so it isn’t obvious.” Katsuki’s tone speaks to how highly he thinks of that logic.

Phichit and Seung-gil, however, both nod. Hearing this of anyone else might evoke more of a reaction, but of Viktor Nikiforov? Living Legends don’t adhere to the same standards as the rest of them.

“He’s okay now, right?” Phichit interjects.

Yuuri doesn’t reply for a long stretch, and then he inhales and exhales a long, exasperated breath.

“Did he hurt—”

Seung-gil squeezes Phichit’s hand, and Phichit takes the hint and stops talking with visible effort.

Katsuki’s stare becomes vague as he goes to whatever memory he’s recalling. “I asked him not to take unnecessary risks with his body,” he says. “But he took one, and it didn’t go well for him.” He seems to consider his next words, his face tinged with red, then shakes his head at the floor. “We talked with Yakov this morning, and the three of us agreed that he would do the team skate and then see how he felt afterward.” Katsuki tips his head and makes an eloquent sweep of his hand—an implied, “you know the rest”.

Phichit makes a frustrated sound. “Yuuri, don’t be vague.”

Yuuri quirks a wry look at him. “It’s Viktor’s business. I told you a lot more than most people will hear, Phichit.”

“You hardly told us anything! What’s wrong with him? What did he do? Why won’t the news hear? W—”

Yuuri’s eyes cut to the floor again, and Seung-gil recognizes all of a sudden—in an instant—the aura Katsuki’s projecting. Seung-gil’s surprised Phichit hasn’t realized yet.

Katsuki’s _embarrassed_.

“Yuu _uuuu_ uuuuri!”

“I’m sure there’ll be a documentary on it,” Katsuki says. “You can wait until then.”

As Phichit draws breath for his next argument, Seung-gil interrupts and says, “We should leave,” a little louder than he meant to. His voice draws both sets of eyes, and he adds, “Nikiforov is going to come back here, right?”

Katsuki’s smile shifts almost imperceptibly. He nods once, and Seung-gil thinks he might be crazy but there seems to be gratitude in his eyes.

Phichit doesn’t argue with either of them, but he seems a little baffled. “Uh. Okay.” He pushes himself up and stretches his arms out behind him, his face a sketch of conflicting emotions.

Katsuki walks them the very short distance from the bed to the door, attempting to put on a more neutral expression with obvious difficulty.

“Uh, t-tell Viktor—” Phichit pauses, thinks for a bit, and says, “‘Please rest.’”

Katsuki offers back a smile tinged with relief and says, “I will.”

As they pass the bathroom door on the way out, Seung-gil thinks he hears a slosh of water. This leads him to wonder all the way across the courtyard if Viktor Nikiforov, champion and living legend and part-time demigod of figure skating, _was hiding in Katsuki’s bathtub the entire time they were in the room_.

•

Of course not.

•

Right?

•

While Phichit’s brushing his teeth, Seung-gil explains what he thinks actually happened to Nikiforov.

Phichit stares at him for a good, long while. He spits into the sink, then says, “ _A sex injury?_ How could you tell?”

It becomes something of an in joke between them _immediately_.

•

He and Phichit talk about Nikiforov and Katsuki for hours after that, and by the time dawn is reaching her bright fingers between the curtains in Seung-gil’s room, they’re tangled together under the covers, barely awake.

It’s in this liminal space, when they should be asleep but they aren’t, when they should be bursting with emotion but they aren’t, when they should be looking ahead but they aren’t, that Seung-gil feels comfortable enough to whisper to Phichit, “I know why I want to keep skating.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! I'm determined to bring this back to Sunday updates before the end! I was nearly sidetracked again because over the weekend, I got stranded in Hiroshima following historic rains that shut down all the shinkansen going in and out of the city. My one-hour business trip became an impromptu three-day vacation. ^^; I wasn't near the worst of the flooding, though, so I was really only mildly inconvenienced. ♡ Here's hoping my next update is less disaster-oriented? (Leave Japan alone for a while, planet, jeez.)


	25. February 8th, 2018

The day Seung-gil left with Phichit and Celestino for PyeongChang, Jun-young and Dong-hyun invited him into a group chat along with what appears to be their entire extended family. Seung-gil lasted six seconds in the notification tempest that ensued. Then, out of self-defense in the exact moment that he realized the torrent of messages was unlikely to ever slow down, he muted the chat altogether.

He hasn’t checked on it in three days, and every time Seung-gil reports the newest number in the app’s notification bubble, Phichit makes an agonized noise like he’s being forced to watch his Instagram stories fail to upload.

The morning of the eighth, Phichit says, “ _Please_ just click on it,” while they wait for Guang Hong to finish his third waffle, his second bowl of wonton soup, his first helping of fries, and his fifth cup of herbal tea.

It’s their last day of peace. Tomorrow, they face the men’s singles short program in the morning, the opening ceremony in the evening, and then a full thirty-six hours of recuperating and slogging through complicated emotions before the free skate. Seung-gil can’t even pin down what emotion he’s feeling _right now_ , so he doesn’t hold much hope of that improving in the days to come.

While Phichit makes pleading eyes at him, Seung-gil pretends not to hear or see him and hums at his screen. “Jumped up another thirty,” he says. He plucks up the shoestring lace from his sweatshirt hood and chews absently on the plastic end of it. “Forty-seven now. Guess the twins are awake.”

 _“Give me the phone, please_ ,” Phichit whines, sprawling across the table and making frail grabbing motions with his outstretched hand.

From his seat beside Phichit, Leo snaps a photo of the two of them and grins. “Can I post this without context?” he asks.

Seung-gil says, “Okay,” just as Phichit says, “No!”

Leo nods in a way that doesn’t give away at all what he’s going to do, but from the rapid typing, Seung-gil assumes the obvious.

Breakfast at the Olympic Village always seems suspended in a vacuum for Seung-gil. He rarely sees the same people twice—with the exception of Phichit—and the atmosphere is tense with dawning collective comprehension of the weight the day will hold for many. When he’s in here, surrounded by other athletes, the world outside the Village feels like a whole country and a half away.

“HA!”

Seung-gil notes the change in sensation between his fingers and looks down to confirm that Phichit has, indeed, succeeded in stealing his phone.

“Hey,” he objects.

Guang Hong, chewing on a wonton, leans closer to Phichit to share in Phichit’s shameless violation of privacy.

“ _Hey_ ,” Seung-gil says.

With a wide grin, Phichit hands the phone back.

He doesn’t seem to have changed anything, but—

“You clicked on it.”

Phichit throws him a wink. “I did,” he says. “I didn’t see anything, though, don’t worry.”

“I did,” Guang Hong says, once he’s swallowed, “but I couldn’t read any of it.”

Sighing, Seung-gil opens the chat. He knows for a fact that Dong-hyun counts the number of chat members who’ve read the messages, and once he’s figured out that Seung-gil’s (involuntarily) entered the chat, he’s going to send the wolves after him until he becomes an active participant.

A quick scan of the most recent messages confirms that he wants no part of this.

[Are we going to see Seung-gil before he skates tomorrow?] An aunt.

[I don’t think so. He’s probably busy until the whole thing ends, right?] A cousin.

[No, that can’t be. I saw an interview with a snowboarder having lunch with her family!!!] Another cousin.

[Someone please ask Seung-gil if he can come to lunch today, then.] His mother.

[I don’t think he’s allowed to leave the Village, Mom….] Jun-young.

[Why wouldn’t he? Someone ask him, please.] His mother.

[He doesn’t answer his phone when we call. He’s not even checking the chat.] Hae-il.

And, of course, the newest addition is:

[HE’S HERE.] Dong-hyun. Damn it.

“ _Damn it,_ Phichit,” Seung-gil groans.

“Sorry,” Phichit says, smiling without remorse.

Hae-il’s name and face appear on Seung-gil’s screen, and with a grimace, Seung-gil accepts the call while Phichit continues to beam innocuously at him from across the table. Guang Hong laughs and Leo hides his mouth inside his sweatshirt to pretend he isn’t also laughing.

“Hello,” Seung-gil says, flat.

“Little brother!”

“What.”

All of a sudden, the noise around him swells and pushes inward, and Seung-gil frowns at the door to the cafeteria where it appears a marriage proposal is taking place before a gathering audience. Within seconds, Guang Hong and Phichit are scrambling up and over to become two members of said audience.

Leo and Seung-gil exchange looks on the less interested realm of the spectrum.

Seung-gil realizes Hae-il’s said something and is waiting for a response. Based on the conversation he’s just read through, despite not knowing what Hae-il actually wants to know, he decides on, “I’m not allowed to leave the Village,” in English, for Leo’s benefit.

Leo, in the middle of tearing Guang Hong’s neglected fourth waffle into bite-size pieces to scarf down, snorts and shoots Seung-gil a grin.

“Ha,” Hae-il says. “Getting laid’s made you funny. Very cute. Mom’s gonna come in there and get you if you don’t show your face at at least one family function, you know.”

“She’s not allowed.” He pauses. “Actually not allowed.”

“Look, just come to this one. You’re not competing until tomorrow, and you’ve had enough time with Phichit. You’re going to make him look bad to the family if you use him as an excuse to ignore them.”

Seung-gil frowns. “I ignored them before,” he points out. “What’s the difference?”

“I’m not awake enough for this. Bring him if you want—just show up.”

As Seung-gil considers it, his eyes find and lock onto Phichit across the room. His boyfriend is arduously filming the newly engaged weeping couple with his phone while Guang Hong uses his shoulder as leverage to hop up and down for a better view over the heads of the crowd.

Seung-gil’s breath catches.

It may be years before he’s used to the reality of Phichit as a permanent fixture in his life.

He thinks back to his grandfather’s party, how bleak it was to face his family alone, weighed down by the overwhelming amount of people around him and all of their expectations of Olympic grandeur piled on his back. …How nothing but the thought of seeing Phichit again was able to permeate and cast the faintest thread light through his mind.

“I’ll go,” he says to Hae-il. And, with reluctance, “Phichit’s busy.”

As easy as it would be to ask Phichit to go with him, as certain as he is that Phichit would go, and go happily—

This is Phichit’s first Olympics.

And Seung-gil’s family is _his_ hangup to confront.

Hae-il says, “Okay,” and promises to send the details in writing before he hangs up.

It isn’t until Seung-gil’s hung up and put his phone face-down on the table that Leo says, “Are you okay?” and startles him.

The excited crowd is calming down now and beginning to disperse, but Phichit and Guang Hong seem committed to observe until the couple has stopped sobbing and hugging.

Leo’s eyes have the same soft interest in them that fill Phichit’s sometimes, and Seung-gil finds the comparison soothing rather than offensive.

Instead of answering directly, Seung-gil explains, “I have to go out to lunch with my family,” and hopes his tone alone covers the important information.

“That’s cool,” Leo says, then seems to reassess his opinion with a tentative, “right?”

Seung-gil rests his chin on both palms and says, “It’s fine,” with a resigned sigh. He glances at Phichit, finally detached from filming the couple and now taking panorama shots of the cafeteria at large, and says, “Maybe,” with a tiny, familiar thread of light coiling warm around his mind.

•

Leaving the cafeteria takes about fifteen minutes longer than Seung-gil would like because Phichit is exchanging contact and social media information with ten new friends. Some of them glance expectantly at Seung-gil, the unmoved pillar at Phichit’s side, but he blinks back and makes zero moves for his own phone.

As they walk down the hallway toward Seung-gil’s room—from which Seung-gil’s roommate seems to have removed all of his belongings and where Phichit’s toothbrush now lives—Phichit keeps up a steady stream of giddy talking. He seems to have a lot to cover, from the friends he met to who exactly the newly engaged couple are and why Seung-gil should be interested in them (he’s still not). During one of the only pauses for breath Phichit takes, Seung-gil manages to slip in, “I’m having lunch with my family.”

“Oh,” Phichit says. “Okay.”

Seung-gil unlocks his door and lets Phichit in ahead of him, noting the change in atmosphere.

There’s a good chance Phichit is going to misread something, so Seung-gil takes a wild stab at the source and says, “I don’t want you to come because I want to deal with them by myself.”

Phichit snorts with unexpected mirth. He toes his shoes off and then leans against the wall as he watches Seung-gil do the same. “Are you in trouble with them?” Phichit asks. “Are they mad at you for something?”

Which…is a fair assumption, Seung-gil supposes, based on the information Phichit has. Seung-gil waits until he’s sprawled on the bed, face-down in the pillow Phichit used last night, before replying, “They’re not mad, but they’re not happy either. It’s normal.”

He makes a soft noise as Phichit’s fingers press down on his scalp and comb through his hair. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? You don’t _have_ to deal with them alone, you know. If I’m there, then they won’t really focus on you, right?”

The sensation of his hand is rhythmic and soothing, and Seung-gil wonders again what drastic measures the South Korean government would take if he stayed here and refused to compete. He could blame it on Nikiforov.

“Stay here,” Seung-gil says. “You have sixty-two new friends to hang out with.”

(He counted all of Phichit’s latest Olympian mutuals on Instagram.)

Phichit lies down next to him, laughing. His arm stretches across Seung-gil’s back and pulls him tight to his chest. “Guess what?” he says in a whisper. “I like you more than all of them combined.”

It sends warmth singing through his body, but he still pokes Phichit in the cheek and says, “Your feelings for those people are still new and small, so that’s—” He searches for the words in English, can’t find a way to express what he wants to say, and so finishes in Korean, “not much of a statement to make.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Nothing.”

“You _just_ said something!”

“You’re imagining it.”

“I am _not!_ Tell me what you said or I’m only speaking Thai until the Olympics are over!”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says. In Thai.

Phichit tickles him, and Seung-gil only succeeds in not laughing until Phichit finds and attacks three of his weakest spots. They end up on the floor, panting with residual giggles, semi-tangled. Seung-gil says, “I’ll write to you when we finish lunch.”

Phichit kisses his neck, where his face is comfortably pressed, and murmurs, “No, call me,” in Korean.

•

At noon, Hae-il writes to tell Seung-gil he’s parked just outside the Olympic Village. Seung-gil takes his time ambling through the security gate, in no rush to get to this meal since it’ll hardly make it go faster to get there early. When he sees the giant ostentatious box-like black Mercedes SUV idling on the side of the road, he sighs.

At least Yo-han is in the passenger’s seat.

“I’m sorry he dragged you here,” Seung-gil says by way of greeting as he slides into the backseat.

Yo-han laughs and turns in his seat, a subtle yet polite move Seung-gil approves of. Yo-han’s crisp leather jacket and the sunglasses holding back his jet-black fringe remind Seung-gil what caliber of cool this man is and also how desperately out of Hae-il’s league he is.

“You say that like the Olympic Games are his kid brother’s school festival and not the _Olympic Games_ ,” Yo-han says.

Seung-gil doesn’t answer. Mostly because that’s close to how he’s been thinking recently, and it’ll probably sound ungrateful to give voice to it to someone who isn’t Phichit or Celestino. Someone who doesn’t understand.

Hae-il maneuvers his SUV into the line of cars leaving the Village and says, “It was so nice of you to go out of your way to pick me up, respected older brother,” in a flat deadpan Seung-gil assumes is meant to represent him.

Yo-han grins over his shoulder at Seung-gil. “Say the word and I’ll punch him,” he says.

Seung-gil opens his mouth, but Hae-il squawks, “What kind of abusive bullshit is that to say about your fiancé?”

For a moment, the air is frozen.

Then Yo-han licks his lips, inhales, and turns around to meet Seung-gil’s eyes. “So, we’re engaged,” he says, deceptively light.

Seung-gil nods, wide-eyed. “I heard,” he says. What the—?

Yo-han swerves back around and bats at Hae-il’s shoulder with a pinched grin. “You loudmouth,” he complains.

“I’m sorry, hey, stop!” Hae-il laughs, leaning away from the gentle attack. “Seung-gil, listen, don’t—”

“You haven’t told anyone yet,” Seung-gil says.

Yo-han makes an apologetic noise. “No, not yet. We’re trying to wait until the Olympics are over so we don’t steal your thunder.” He delivers another whap to Hae-il’s shoulder. “ _Trying_.”

“I get it, I get it! I’m sorry! I won’t talk for the rest of the day.”

As their bickering progresses, it occurs to Seung-gil that he has no idea how long they’ve actually known each other, let alone dated. He was under the impression that they met on the set of the movie they’ve been working on, but…he’s not sure.

Normally he wouldn’t even care, but for some reason…he finds himself wanting to know more about his brother’s life.

“Who proposed?” he asks.

Hae-il glances at him in the mirror, eyebrows high.

Yo-han, who probably doesn’t know Seung-gil well enough to be surprised, says, “Your brother did.”

“You don’t need to tell him the story,” Hae-il says. He changes lanes on what appears to be a whim.

Seung-gil smirks to himself. Now he _definitely_ wants to hear more. “I don’t mind listening to it,” he says.

Hae-il shoots him an unamused Look in the mirror, but it isn’t at all an effective deterrent.

“After filming wrapped, we went skydiving in Australia together,” Yo-han tells Seung-gil. “And while we were in the plane, he’d hired people to lay out proposal tiles on the ground that we could see from the sky, and a camera crew to film the whole thing.”

Seung-gil opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it. Then freezes like that.

Hae-il takes another furtive look at him, but this time he looks the tiniest bit apprehensive. Like he actually cares what Seung-gil thinks about how he proposed to his…fiancé.

Seung-gil’s first impulse is to call out how utterly unnecessary it all sounds. Why couldn’t he just _ask_? Was he really so afraid Yo-han would say no that he had to put on a spectacle to make him feel bad? Or maybe he was so confident Yo-han would say yes that he _deliberately_ did something so stupid.

But….

Well….

“Did you like it?” he asks Yo-han.

Hae-il narrows his eyes, but Seung-gil can’t understand why. Doesn’t what Yo-han thinks matter more…?

“It wasn’t what I expected,” Yo-han says.

Seung-gil isn’t sure what to do with an answer like that, especially since Yo-han is smiling at Hae-il when he says it. Hae-il sneaks a grin back and moves one hand from the wheel to poke at Yo-han’s wrist on the armrest. Yo-han interlocks their fingers with a satisfied noise that Seung-gil can’t comprehend being inspired by his coarse oaf of a brother.

The rest of the conversation—refreshing Yo-han on all their relatives’ names and quirks—allows Seung-gil plenty of time to to himself in the backseat to prepare himself mentally for the afternoon ahead. He already wants to be back in the Village, taking advantage of his roommateless room (according to Phichit’s social media sleuthing, he has a girlfriend on the Senegalese team he’s probably staying with).

Since he can’t be there, however, he writes to Phichit, [Almost at the restaurant. Give me something to think about until I get back to the Village.]

Phichit doesn’t read it right away, which means he’s probably with someone else.

Seung-gil wrinkles his nose and, as a last resort for entertainment, opens some of his other chat windows. Leo’s sent him photos from breakfast, and Guang Hong’s sent a video of Phichit and Ji-na reenacting some singer’s choreography. The message attached says, [Ji-na won’t let him upload it, but I thought you’d want to see it!] There’s also a collection of messages from Ji-na that baffle him with their content. He sends back a platoon of question marks.

A notification for an incoming message from Phichit drops down on his screen and Seung-gil hurries to tap it.

[I found an app that remote controls vibrating eggs!]

Seung-gil’s mind shuts off for a second until he realizes what “egg” means in this context.

…Hm….

“Ah, Seung-gil, there’s your dance guy. Mom invited him.”

Seung-gil lifts his head, frowning out through the windshield, and from the front of the restaurant they’re approaching, Joelë smiles and waves at the car.

•

The four of them enter the restaurant together, but Hae-il and Yo-han go on ahead while Seung-gil and Joelë linger in the restaurant’s amply-sized lobby. Once a staff person has taken their jackets, Joelë gestures to a leather sofa pushed up near a fireplace, and Seung-gil sits beside him.

He supposes this is where he should apologize for all the work he’s foisted on Joelë over the last several weeks. For taking advantage of his kindness. For making him worry. For—

“Tell me how everything’s been going,” Joelë says, folding his hands between his knees. “I’ve been writing to Celestino every other day, but there’s only so much I can infer from that, y’know? I want to hear from _you_. Was the rest good?”

Seung-gil hesitates and then nods, licking his lips. He’s surprised to find they’re not chapped like they always are. His mind helpfully supplies memories of kissing Phichit over and over every morning—Phichit, whose mouth is always, always coated in some kind of lip protective substance.

“It was good,” Seung-gil says.

He doesn’t know how to say more.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Joelë says. “I was worried about you for a while, I’ll be honest.”

Seung-gil says, “Oh,” and wonders if he should apologize yet.

Joelë reaches out and clasps Seung-gil’s shoulder, his eyes bright and his smile far more fragile than Seung-gil’s ever seen it. The sight makes Seung-gil’s breath stutter.

“You’re such a talented artist, Seung-gil,” Joelë says. “I don’t think you even realize it yet—how much you still have to offer.” He squeezes Seung-gil’s shoulder tightly. “I’m happy for you. Whatever happens tomorrow, you’ve already made me proud by being here today. By accepting support from the people you love, and rising to the world stage where you belong. This was a rough time for you, but you’re going to grow so much from it. I promise you that.”

Seung-gil nods again, and tries to breathe without giving away the emotion building in his chest.

Joelë laughs and opens his arms. “None of your stoicism, Lee Seung-gil,” he says at a volume just loud enough to reach California.

Seung-gil squawks when he’s enfolded, but he doesn’t quite struggle as much as he feels he would in other circumstances.

•

The Lee family has rented the restaurant’s “gathering room”, and it’s clear from the first few minutes inside it that Seung-gil will be escaping here as soon as he can. On foot, if he has to.

There is an uncountable mass of people here, all loud and laughing and dressed far too elegantly for an afternoon meal. Seung-gil knows all of them, and to his displeasure, they all not only know him in return, they also all want to speak with him. About tomorrow, mostly, but also—

“You’re seeing that Thai skater!”

Fucking—

He can’t think of anything to say, so he goes with silence, but his elderly great uncle is unswayed. He smacks Seung-gil on the bicep with a guffaw.

“You’re a good boy!” the old man shouts. “He’s handsome! You can have a lady on the side, right? I had a friend who did that, you know! Married a high-class fellow, but carried on with his best mate on weekends! Called it ‘boys night’! Ha!”

Seung-gil contemplates the nearest door with ardent desperation.

Dae-sung’s arm falls across his shoulders like a log. “I’m sorry to interrupt, uncle, but Mother wants to speak to Seung-gil.”

Their uncle waves them off with a friendly grin, already apparently zeroing in on a still-single cousin of theirs who looks mortified to have been noticed at all.

Dae-sung steers Seung-gil through the horde of family, but Seung-gil hesitates to thank him because he might actually just be taking him to their mother, and not to the exit like a proper brother would.

“Who told him I’m dating?” he asks at a low yell in Dae-sung’s ear.

“Probably Father,” Dae-sung says. “Mother told him not to, but he’s excited you’re not going to die celibate.”

Seung-gil almost fights his way out of the room _right_ then.

But to his disappointment, their mother is, in fact, waiting for him. Her hair is set in curls, pulled up into an elaborate bouquet at the top of her head. Her makeup is flawless, her aqua blazer complements her plum dress, and her eyes behind her glasses are intent on her sons.

“Damn it,” Seung-gil sighs. “Why is she looking at me like that?”

Dae-sung doesn’t answer him. He deposits Seung-gil at the mostly empty long table where their mother is seated and takes a pleasant stroll in the opposite direction with a wry smirk.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the chair next to hers.

He does, and her sweeping gaze makes him suddenly very aware of his clothes. The white turtleneck is another one of Phichit’s stowaway items snuck into Seung-gil’s suitcase when he wasn’t paying attention, as are the skinny tartan pants. He dressed without thinking this morning, and he’s starting to wonder if maybe he should be paying closer attention in case he’s quizzed on it at any point.

His mother’s lips develop a small, amused curl. “You look so different,” she says. She’s sitting sideways on her chair, her hands folded in her lap and her ankles demurely crossed. “How do you feel?”

He remembers her concerns about his mental health and he inhales, preparing himself for a long interrogation. “Better,” he says honestly. “I needed the time away.”

His mother studies him. The noise beyond them seems to fade for a moment, the room at large less in focus than his mother before him. Then she nods. “I think you did, too. Your face is fuller now.”

He never thought he’d enjoy someone—especially his mother—commenting on his weight. But he knows what she means by it.

She pours a glass of tea from a pitcher and hands it to him.

He blinks down at it. Then at her.

She sips from her own, unaffected.

He waits.

She smiles.

“Aren’t you going to ask me more?” he asks, startled.

Something playful stretches her smile wider. “No,” she says. “I know what I wanted to know.” She pats his knee. “Go talk to your grandmother for a while, and then you can get one of your brothers to drive you back to the Village.”

He isn’t gawking, probably, but whatever face he’s making has the same effect—she laughs.

“You’re not getting out of the post-Games party,” she tells him. “Or Dae-sung’s birthday celebration in two weeks. You’re going to be a more present member of the family now, and we want to see more of Phichit, too.”

Which—

Seung-gil frowns. “Why is Father telling people about my sex life?” he asks.

There…might have been better ways to phrase that question. Still, it’s been said, so Seung-gil decides to stand by it.

His mother regards him solemnly for a long second, then covers her eyes with one hand. “Please call him over here on your way out,” she says. “I’ll handle it.”

He’s standing, fully prepared to begin his search for his grandmother, when a torrent of emotion breaks over him. On impulse, he bends and kisses his mother on the top of her head where the hair is stiff and sprayed down.

He hurries away before she can react, his lips trembling with a daring smile.

•

His grandmother is nowhere to be found for a very long, frustrating time, and that’s because she’s outside smoking with Jun-young. She’s in a dapper gentleman’s coat, for some reason, and Jun-young is in a sweater pretending he’s not shivering so hard his teeth are clacking.

“Hello, boy,” his grandmother says to him. Round tufts of smoke float from her lips, and Jun-young provides appreciative applause, his gloves smacking together without producing much sound. “Don’t come close,” she adds. “We don’t want to poison you before your big performance tomorrow.”

“Competition,” Seung-gil corrects absently. He leans on a wall a safe distance from them, where the wind won’t carry the smoke, and settles in. “Mother said I can leave after I deliver my greetings to you.”

“That’s cool of her,” Jun-young says.

“Yes,” their grandmother says with sarcasm, “ _cool_.”

Maybe it’s the smaller audience. Maybe it’s the people specifically. The twins have never been loud like Hae-il or domineering like Dae-sung, and their grandmother is—in every way that matters—Seung-gil’s future self. It’s easy to relax out here behind the restaurant, secure in the motivation he’s pulled together for tomorrow.

He even finds himself with a wry smile on his lips after a sarcastic comment his grandmother tosses out, and Jun-young meets it with one of his own.

“I still haven’t met your boyfriend,” their grandmother says. “I expect a formal introduction. Not the cheap, sloppy tour you forced him through with the rest of the family. Do you hear me?”

Seung-gil bows his head. “Yes, grandmother,” he says.

She stubs out her cigarette and throws it near his feet. “Don’t be smart with me, child.”

“Sorry, grandmother.”

She taps Jun-young on the hip. “Go put a jacket on and drive your older brother back to his hotel or wherever it is he’s staying.”

Jun-young nods, seeming grateful for the order to go inside (apparently he was only out here so long thanks to his own stubbornness), and Seung-gil snorts once he’s gone.

“This wasn’t so bad,” he finds himself saying aloud.

His grandmother eyes him with great skepticism. “How long were you here again?” she asks.

He doesn’t change his expression. “Twenty-three minutes,” he says.

She rolls her eyes to the sky and says, “Save me.”

“Why are you talking to the sky, grandmother? Do you want it to snow?”

She finds a balled up tissue in the coat pocket and throws that at him, too.

•

Jun-young drives him back, blasting the heat and talking a mile a minute about some family scandal he’s missed out on. Seung-gil’s in too good a mood to let on just how little he’s listening, and instead makes a few appropriate Listening Sounds as Jun-young navigates the traffic leading to back up the mountain toward the Village.

At last, the massive dormitory buildings in the distance rise to greet them, and Seung-gil sends Phichit a message. [I’ll call in a few minutes.]

Phichit promptly reads it and sends back a stamp of a hamster rolling back and forth on its back.

“I’m really excited to see you compete tomorrow,” Jun-young says. “I’ve never seen you skate live before.”

Seung-gil glances up from his phone. “Really?”

He casts through his memories, but he can’t recall a single instance when the twins came to see one of his programs. He didn’t expect them to, really—they’ve always felt so much younger in his mind than they really are, and if Hae-il and Dae-sung couldn’t be bothered, what could he realistically expect from the twins?

“I didn’t think you were interested,” Seung-gil hears himself say.

(This has to be Phichit’s influence, too. This _talking without thinking first_ thing.)

Jun-young tips his head to the side, a little sheepish. “Well, I wasn’t,” he says. “But my friend is a big fan of Katsuki Yuuri and she explained how the jumps all work, and she mentioned you were the first to do one in competition.”

Seung-gil stares at his younger brother’s profile.

Jun-young gives him a small smile and a nod. “I was like, ‘My brother did that?’ and she was like, ‘Yeah, he made history with that jump,’ and I was just like… ‘whoa, he’s really cool’. So now…I’m sorry I didn’t see you skate more. But I’ll try to go from now on, at least when you’re actually in the country.”

The first time Seung-gil skated without a single member of his family present, he forgot part of his program. Min-so chalked it up to laziness on his part, and he quickly agreed with her. Looking back now, it’s more likely that he was trying to shut off the parts of his brain that wanted him to search the stands for a familiar face, and he overdid it.

How long has he been shutting off more than he meant to?

When Jun-young stops the car, Seung-gil says, “I’d like that,” and means it.

•

He finds Phichit asleep in his bed, on top of the covers, his phone clutched in his hand. Seung-gil’s current attempted call lights up the screen until Seung-gil ends it.

Outside, cheers rise. The sky is already navy, plunging fast into deeper colors. Some windows in the building opposite glow, but more of them are dark. Athletes are wandering the grounds, keeping their voices quiet out of respect for those concentrating on what may be the biggest day of their careers.

Seung-gil toes off his shoes, climbs into bed behind Phichit, and nuzzles against the back of his neck.

It’ll be dinner before long, and they’ll need to eat. Before or after that, Phichit might want to tell Seung-gil more about this vibrating egg thing.

But for now, in this lull between slopes, Seung-gil closes his eyes and holds his boyfriend and thinks small.

_I’m ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! No natural disasters this time, but I'm sorry I've fallen into an irregular updating schedule with this! I can promise it'll be finished before August is over, but just going by the way the next several weeks look for me I'm not sure what days specifically it'll be updated. Apologies, truly.
> 
> I also apologize specifically to everyone who complimented me on keeping a weekly schedule for so long, and then immediately falling into an irregular updating schedule. ^^;
> 
> I'm also deeply grateful to everyone who's left a comment. I've gotten a little behind in answering them all, but I did want to mention that they're a massive source of encouragement and you're all incredibly lovely for offering the support you do. ♡


	26. February 16th, 2018

Years after Seung-gil’s first Olympic Games has ended and his memories of the experience have narrowed to only a chosen few, he’ll open a link from a fan, intrigued by the accompanying message of _i can’t beLIEVE you’ve never seen this!!!!!_

It’s a video of twenty-two-year-old Phichit, bright-eyed and beaming after completing his Olympic short program and securing a spot for himself in the top five. The initial audio is stuffed with cheers and chatter from the surrounding audience, and Phichit himself appears to be waving to fans somewhere behind the camera. He’s just as electric on video as he is in Seung-gil’s memories.

A reporter asks what was going through his head during his skate, and Phichit’s smile softens a little. “I’ve had a lot going on in my head recently,” he says. “When I’m out there, it’s the only place I can kind of, ah, separate everything into pieces. It’s usually all combined when I’m living through it. But, yeah. This…this time was different. I only had one, ah, subject on my mind, and that helped me focus on what I needed to do.”

When the video is finished, Seung-gil will laugh to himself (one breath with a touch of sound). He won’t feel surprised that everyone’s assumed Phichit was talking about him. He’ll know—but won’t say—that Phichit was talking about his ice show. Seung-gil has always known, since he was very, very young, that many people enjoy the thought of romance infusing every moment of a couple’s life.

And it does, in a way.

What he’ll write back to the fan is, _Thank you. You reminded me of something I’ve always admired about him._

And that is:

When Phichit soars, he brings others with him.

•

The short program lineup is decided by lots, and Seung-gil winds up one of the last to skate.

In the time leading up to their respective moments, Seung-gil and Phichit rarely leave each other’s sight, even though they only exchange a few words. Seung-gil doesn’t have anything to say, and Phichit is content to talk to whoever else is nearby, whether that person be staff, volunteer, press, coach, or athlete. Celestino stands near them, arms folded over his stomach, his smile small. He exudes pride in his skaters, and Seung-gil reminds himself to prove he’s worthy of it.

Phichit’s fourteenth, and Seung-gil twenty-eighth.

The Loud Canadian is twenty-seventh.

Plisetsky’s eighth.

Crispino’s thirteenth.

Guang Hong’s fifth.

Leo’s nineteenth.

Altin’s ninth.

Katsuki’s twenty-ninth.

Giacometti’s twentieth.

The others are less of a threat, so Seung-gil doesn’t memorize their numbers or names.

•

While Phichit is skating, Seung-gil watches him on a monitor in the back, standing tense between Leo and Guang Hong.

It’s not the first time Seung-gil’s been enraptured by Phichit’s artistry, nor will it be the last, but it _is_ the first time he’s wanted to cheer him on aloud. He folds his arms around his chest and breathes deep and full as the music decrescendos and Phichit builds momentum to earn the bulk of his program’s points.

When Phichit takes off for his first quad jump, Seung-gil squeezes his own biceps, but he doesn’t blink or look away.

He watches, solemn, as Phichit lands at a jagged angle and his fingertips graze the ice. Guang Hong and Leo flinch.

Still, Phichit’s expression doesn’t change. His eager smile only grows, and Seung-gil’s iron grip loosens.

To a backing of encouraging applause, Phichit follows the sweet notes of his music and gives himself utterly to the practiced rhythms of his choreography. Seung-gil notices Phichit repeatedly falling back on muscle memory for much of the second half of his program, paying more attention to the presentational than the technical. He’s competent enough that it probably won’t show to most, but the judges will see it. The judges as well as the diehard fans and the sport’s experts and the skaters and their coaches—they’ll notice Phichit’s choices and pick them apart. They’ll wonder why he made the choices he did when other choices would have earned him more points, led to a higher tier. Some of those people will bemoan the Program That Could Have Been, and come to Phichit with earnest questions—as if Phichit’s goal in this sport has ever been technical perfection.

Others won’t mind. They’ll appreciate what he’s doing for what it is: passion.

And to people like Supatra—who’ve known and loved Phichit since he was a child—and Phichit’s parents—who glow whenever their son smiles and did all they could to see him into the spotlight where he belongs—and the little girl Nilawan—who won’t listen to her teacher but will absorb everything Phichit tells her because he’s a national hero—and the people of Thailand—who are watching him now and cheering for him, seeing one of their own succeed on an international platform before the whole of the world—

Those people won’t acknowledge any official score, because the only one they’ll accept is perfection.

To them—to Seung-gil, at his core—Phichit’s program _is_ perfect.

As Phichit takes his final pose, bright as a guiding star, Guang Hong sniffles and Leo claps, and all around them there are bursts of applause and excited cheers in a cacophony of languages.

And Seung-gil smiles.

•

When Phichit finds his way to the back with Celestino a warm presence at his side, he’s swamped by brief words of congratulations and silent but internationally-understood high fives from many. Giacometti kisses either cheek and gives him a hug, Katsuki steps in to offer a smile and quiet praise, and Guang Hong—still wiping his eyes—tells Phichit something soft and heartfelt that Seung-gil can’t hear.

Seung-gil waits for the thick of the tide to recede, then pushes off the wall he’s been leaning on.

In the few months they’ve been dating, Seung-gil can’t think of a single credible reason he ever had to doubt how Phichit feels about him, but if he ever had, the subtle curve to Phichit’s lips and the delighted creases at the corners of his eyes when he catches sight of Seung-gil would eliminate it entirely.

When Seung-gil takes Phichit’s hand, there aren’t any reporters in this part of the corridor and hardly anyone nearby at all. He wouldn’t care if there were. He’d still kiss Phichit on the forehead and say, “You’re too formidable,” just to hear Phichit laugh.

•

Along with the rest of the world, Seung-gil watches the names in the top five placements continue to shift around.

Right before Phichit skated, the ranking was:

1\. Plisetsky  
2\. Altin  
3\. Guang Hong  
4\. Crispino  
5\. Some American

Then Phichit took Guang Hong’s spot and the American drops to sixth.

Not long afterward, Leo takes fourth with his skate, and then Giacometti takes third.

At this point, the placement doesn’t budge for quite a while. It stays:

1\. Plisetsky  
2\. Altin  
3\. Giacometti  
4\. Phichit  
5\. Leo

Seung-gil sits thigh-to-thigh with Phichit on a sofa near one of the monitors and together they watch the next skater, a fresh new face from Spain. Seung-gil props his elbows on his knees and presses his mouth against his fingers. He studies each movement, his mind a comforting field of numbers: base values, bonus percentages for every second half jump, points docked for under-rotations, corrected figures for downgraded jumps, predictions of final scores shifting and changing every few seconds.

Phichit takes his hand at some point.

Katsuki also shows up once, maybe.

There’s Russian happening somewhere, too.

The newly debuted Spanish skater falls for the third time after an ambitious attempt at a quad salchow during which he loses control of his arms, and even though Seung-gil’s long since estimated him out of the competition for the podium, he keeps tallying in order to have something productive to do with his mind.

All there is, for a very long time, is math.

He even forgets for a second what the music of his own program sounds like. Then—as if to punish him—it crowds out all the numbers and makes his head throb with the mundanity of it.

After today, there’s the free skate tomorrow. After the free skate, the podium ceremony. After that…they have Worlds. And then….

Then….

“Our date in Hokkaido,” he says to Phichit. “I still want it. Summer.”

“Okay.”

“I feel sick.”

Phichit squeezes his hand.

•

With time whittling down before Seung-gil’s slot, Celestino—far wiser and more experienced than either of them—tells Phichit there’s a gaggle of reporters hunting for him. Seung-gil recognizes it for what it is: giving him the headspace to prepare.

Phichit tips his head onto the back of the sofa and gives Celestino a complex smile that Seung-gil’s never seen on him before. “Fine.” Then he turns and frames Seung-gil’s face in his hands.

“Remember what you told me?” he asks.

Seung-gil nods as much as he can within the limited range Phichit’s hands allow him.

Phichit’s smile warms further. “You’ll be amazing,” he whispers. “I can’t wait.” He clings onto Seung-gil’s shoulders, and Seung-gil allows Phichit to rock the two of them from side to side.

Celestino gently but firmly places his hands on both of their heads and says to Phichit, “You: rehydrate,” and to Seung-gil, “You: with me.”

Phichit sighs something in Italian with exaggerated patience, but as he stands up and walks off, he winks at Seung-gil over his shoulder, and it heats Seung-gil’s veins.

He remembers what he told Phichit.

Celestino pauses by the side of the couch and touches Seung-gil’s shoulder with the pads of his fingers, peering down at him with an expression Seung-gil never once saw on Min-so:

Enthusiasm.

•

There’s been a room set aside to wait and warm up in, and some internationally-tagged press follow Seung-gil and Celestino toward it. Six cameras and their human escorts crowd the open doorway as Celestino takes a comfortable spot by the wall, tall and calm and every so often presenting the press with a polite smile.

While Seung-gil stretches his hip adductors, Celestino raises his eyebrows at Seung-gil. A quick dart of his eyes to the cameras makes his silent question clear.

Seung-gil purses his lips, indifferent.

Celestino nods once, then turns his head away from Seung-gil with intent.

Giving him space.

Seung-gil multiplies four and a half by thirty-three and breathes in through his nose.

•

It’s strange to Seung-gil that no one in the media talked about Kang Jong-won in the months leading up to this day.

Maybe it’s stranger that Seung-gil is thinking about Kang Jong-won now, with his hands braced on the wall of the Olympic rink, Celestino gripping his hands, and what feels like the entire world focused on him.

Kang qualified for the 1988 Olympics three years into his senior debut, then tore his ACL in practice and left the sport altogether. He owns a traditional Korean wedding attire shop now in Ahyeondong. The general public wouldn’t know him, but within the skating world—the _Korean_ skating world especially—Kang Jong-won was the deep breath before the national victory yell that was Park Min-so.

Kang played games with his programs. He chose ridiculous songs, wore even more ridiculous costumes, and treated all of it like a parade thrown in his honor. He rarely left the ice without a smile.

In that last sense, he was a bit like Phichit.

It wasn’t a surprise when he qualified for the Olympics, considering the era. The late 80’s were a rough slump for Korean figure skating, and numbers were low. Kang may have been a clown, but he was a talented one. It was a short-lived but devastating blow for many when he announced his inevitable retirement.

With his career halted at nineteen, it’s unclear what would have happened if he’d been able to continue. There’s never been another skater quite as irreverent and playful as him.

Then came Min-so.

Seung-gil saw her gold medal from the 1992 Olympics—the stimulus that boosted Korean figure skating back to relevance—only once. She brought it to the rink in its original case and showed her young students what lay in store for them in exchange for their sweat, pain, and struggle. She was certainly proud of it, that much was clear. Along with every other medal she owns. She may not have been personally well-liked or supported, but she was a competent athlete.

In her competitive days, her programs were grand in scale. Classical. Technically challenging. Elite.

(…A little boring….)

She knew how to hone her technical skills to fine points and little else concerned her.

…So.

Maybe Celestino was right.

There isn’t as much of Min-so’s spirit in Seung-gil as she believed.

Instead…there’s more of Kang’s.

He can feel it now.

“Seung-gil, this is for you.”

Seung-gil lifts his chin, surprised out of his calming breaths.

There are others around them. People with cameras. Olympic staff. The volunteer who opened the door to let the last skater off the ice.

Celestino lifts Seung-gil’s hands and gives them a shake. “Listen,” he says, and Seung-gil focuses on him. “This is _for you_.”

Not for Min-so. Not for his country, or his family, or his boyfriend, or his coach.

_This is for you._

Seung-gil locks eyes with Celestino, this man who’s barely begun to train him. Whose unusual methods sometimes pass beyond Seung-gil’s understanding. Who didn’t have to help him, but did. Has. …Will.

He doesn’t care about the cameras. The reporters. The staff or the volunteers or the fans or the people watching just because it’s the Olympics.

He bows his head and says, “Thank you.”

Celestino grips his biceps and says, “Go draw some circles.”

Seung-gil lifts his eyes, Celestino’s face segmented through his hair, and grins.

“Yes, Coach.”

•

Before breakfast this morning, Phichit took Seung-gil’s phone and hid it somewhere in the room.

When Seung-gil expressed mild confusion over this, Phichit explained, “I saw headlines about you that I didn’t like, so I’m protecting you,” and kissed him until Seung-gil gave up.

He wanted to explain that the headlines wouldn’t upset him, but he’s not entirely sure that’s true.

He’s more than aware how little he’s done to earn the affections of his home country over the last few months. He fired his coach, abandoned his training, left the country, and shirked most of his responsibilities. It’s probably obvious to a lot of people that he’s dating Phichit, as well, even if they haven’t announced it. He’s sure plenty of people think he was being lovesick and stupid.

He wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s only being allowed to skate because his fans and the South Korean government petitioned together to let him on the ice.

Gliding to the center of the rink one long slice after another, Seung-gil lifts one arm to acknowledge the roar from the crowd. It’s the least he can do if his potential imaginary scenario is correct.

He’s prepared, if not ready.

He has all the starting numbers in his head. They’ll shift and change as he advances through his program, of course, and he’ll keep steady track of them until the end.

He could ignore them.

He could try to skate without them.

But numbers are reliable, steady, and clear.

Just like his circles.

As he reaches the center, Seung-gil veers into a wide arc. He watches as his blade tears a clean curve into the ice, and when he meets the start of it, he steps neatly away. He doesn’t have time for a second, but the little ritual has made its impact deep in his chest.

His first circle completed, he takes his starting pose inside it.

•

_“I know why I want to keep skating.”_

_“Why?”_

•

His jumps are all clean and crisp and well executed, and his footwork is confident and smooth.

His score, he calculates, will push him into and keep him in the top five.

But…

He isn’t connected to this music.

Next season, he’ll try something bolder. Something younger. Something new.

And his costumes don’t need this much elegance. They need more _exuberance_. More _play_.

Celestino did what he could to help fix this choreography, but it feels cold.

He was on the right track with the mambo. He just gave up too soon.

Maybe he should let Joelë teach him pole dancing after all.

The last note of the music lingers, then cuts off. A spectators’ roar rises around him, and the running monologue in his head turns off.

He bows.

•

_“Because it’s fun.”_

•

When he rises, he’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE HAVE REACHED THE LAST THREE CHAPTERS! ♡ TWO MORE TO GO! ♡


	27. February 17th, 2018

People won’t stop wishing him luck.

Even with his family’s chat muted and all his notifications shut off, he can't avoid seeing the incoming deluge of support swell. Every time he notices the numbers in his apps' notification bubble increasing, he wrinkles his nose. When the number in his messaging app hits five hundred, Seung-gil gives up.

He hands his phone to Phichit and says, “Please,” with flat sincerity. Phichit drops his fork onto the table with a clatter, his mouth open wide with delighted shock. He snatches the phone with a smile brighter than ten thousand fireworks bursting all at once on the surface of the sun.

“What’s…going on?” Leo asks, glancing between them.

Seung-gil returns to his breakfast, assuming Phichit will explain.

“I told Seung-gil I’d manage all his social media if he wanted,” Phichit tells him with glee. “I was joking, but—!”

“I’m not,” Seung-gil says. Phichit already handles Snapchat for him, after all. …The one time he’s used it, anyway.

Guang Hong, swallowing back a yawn, asks Phichit, “Are you going to warn people it’s you before you post anything?”

Leo grins. “I think most people would realize it’s Phichit pretty much immediately.”

Seung-gil tunes them out so he can consider the variables of today’s skate.

First of all, he has a new goal. If he can skate his free today better than he has all season, he’ll consider it a success. Having broken down yesterday’s revelations into pieces he can analyze, there are only a few ways he can integrate new strategies into his free skate. More important than the podium right now is proving to himself that he’s on a linear trajectory, moving upward. Making progress in a way he _himself_ can feel, not the judges alone.

Second, they’re all expected to arrive at the rink in an hour, and he’s still sleepy. His eyes feel sore, and his head is cloudier than usual. He and Phichit should have slept more last night, but one sly goodnight kiss became two and then a very long third, and after the fourth, Phichit managed (without any real effort, honestly) to persuade Seung-gil into receiving a deeply satisfying blowjob. As a result, he’s achieved a sense of composure and contentment—at the cost of sufficient sleep.

Third, his nerves are unusually low considering the morning he has ahead of him. He sent more than thirty emails yesterday regarding his thoughts for next season to the members of his team. When he’d finished those, he spent an additional hour writing a formal email in Korean and English introducing Celestino to everyone he needs to know.

Seung-gil’s been so focused on the future over the last twenty hours, he’s barely thought about today’s free skate at all. Perhaps with some exerted willpower, anxiety won’t catch up to him in time to make an impact.

Across the table, Leo snorts with laughter. He covers his mouth too late to hide it, and the way he looks up from his phone at Phichit gives Seung-gil an idea what’s going on.

Seung-gil shifts his blank stare to Phichit.

His boyfriend returns a wink. “I’m taking care of it,” he says with innocence that most likely fools zero people at their table.

“He changed your Twitter profile,” Guang Hong reports with amusement. He’s sprawled in lazy grace across his portion of the table, his sweatshirt’s hood hanging far over his forehead and his sleeves pulled over his hands so only his fingers show. He turns his phone vertical and reads, “‘This account is being run by popular Thai figure skater Phichit Chulanont until further notice.’”

Seung-gil thinks about that. Their fans will read into it, but that’s per the course. It’s the staggering amount of notifications he won’t have to deal with anymore that brings a tiny smile to Seung-gil’s lips. So he says, “All right,” and puts a flat disc of ham onto Phichit’s plate. “Your month’s due.”

He expects only Phichit to laugh, so he’s taken aback when the response is three times as loud. The sight and sound of Guang Hong and Leo laughing at something he said—a _joke_ he made—…it’s new and strange, but…it’s nice.

Leo reads off his phone, “‘The owner of this account has just paid me in ham for my services,’” and Phichit gives Seung-gil a look so revoltingly cute that Seung-gil commends himself on limiting his reaction to blushing.

Maybe it’s not such a surprise that their fans can tell they’re dating.

Breakfast consumed, Phichit follows Seung-gil cheerfully back to the South Koreans’ dorm building. With a phone in either hand, he looks for all the world like he’s already won a gold medal. Practically electric with feeling, Seung-gil holds the door for him and presses a kiss to Phichit’s cheek as he passes.

His heart skips when Phichit leans into it.

•

Whatever he does today— _however_ he does—his world isn’t narrowed to a point anymore.

It’s easy to lay waste to someone’s world when it’s small.

But Seung-gil’s borders, once forbidding, are slowly expanding.

•

Since Phichit is more than welcome to keep his phone for the foreseeable future, Seung-gil brings Phichit’s tablet to the rink. He sticks close to Celestino and Phichit, but whenever Phichit darts off to socialize—or warm up _and_ socialize—Seung-gil puts earbuds in and peruses Phichit’s eclectic music library in search of inspiration for next season.

Occasionally he gestures to Celestino and lets him listen to a snippet of the music. Celestino makes noncommittal noises every time, his lips in a perpetual _not bad, not bad_ shape. Seung-gil doesn’t have a strong enough grasp of the man to know what he’ll approve of, but he isn’t put off. If he finds something he connects with, he’s sure there won’t be an issue.

From time to time, Phichit returns to their spot to report on the progress of the other skaters. Seung-gil doesn’t encourage or discourage this—even though he doesn’t particularly care where everyone else is, he recognizes that this is Phichit’s way of burning off restless energy.

Once, on a whim, he grabs the hem of Phichit’s jacket and pulls him to sit down with them for a bit. Phichit leans against Seung-gil’s shoulder agreeably enough and points out a few classical songs he thinks would suit Seung-gil. Then he spots Katsuki and Nikiforov and rushes off around the corner after them.

Seung-gil huffs with amusement and selects one of the tracks Phichit recommended.

“Seung-gil,” Celestino says, sliding into the seat Phichit abandoned. “I’m happy to continue coaching you.”

Seung-gil nods, focused on the music playing from the one earbud he has in. He drags the track into a fresh playlist he’s created along with sixteen others. It’s decent, if a little overly cheery, but he’s not sure yet what he’d do with it, or why Phichit recommended it.

“At some point, we should discuss—”

He can see a way forward with something like Dvořák’s “New World” Symphony, but he’s feeling especially partial toward Ludovico Einaudi’s “Oltremare” right now. Music with a focused piano element is most familiar to him, since it’s what Min-so preferred him to use. If Joelë can create a dissonant enough style of choreography, that could be enough to advance toward the sort of creativity Seung-gil was aiming for with Almavivo.

“Seung-gil.”

He turns his head, eyes still on the tablet. “Mm.” Maybe he should make separate playlists for each genre. Or maybe he can just label the tracks according to g—

Celestino’s exasperated laughter is soft. “Never mind. We can discuss it later.”

“Okay,” Seung-gil says, absent.

His mind is a buzzing tangle of notes and jumps and numbers. He’s so thickly immersed in it that he only allows himself to be drawn out in order to warm up. Even then, it’s only halfway.

•

He doesn’t notice he’s humming part of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 as he stretches his calves against a wall, but someone with a camera does, and the ensuing video becomes Phichit’s favorite piece of viral media for about four months.

•

Hae-il is the easiest to spot from the ice. His designer sunglasses and white face mask and stupid orange camouflage hat all shriek LOOK AT ME I’M FAMOUS and judging from his smug aura, he’s well aware of the attention he’s getting from the other spectators. There’s a twin on either side of him, both of them more demurely dressed and waving back to some of the people Hae-il’s giddily ignoring. Their father is next to Jun-young holding a massive pair of binoculars that Seung-gil can’t imagine he’ll need, and their mother is next to Dong-hyun with Seung-gil’s toddler niece in her arms. His mother points Seung-gil out and they both wave. Beside her, Dae-sung and his wife offer waves of their own with restrained warmth.

One row down, his grandmother has a proper South Korean flag in one hand and a red Sunja flag in the other. Her attention, however, appears to be fully on Yo-han beside her, completely undisguised, while he speaks to her with a wide smile. Seung-gil wonders how subtle Hae-il and Yo-han are really trying to be if they’re attending the Olympics together and seating Yo-han next to the family matriarch.

According to Phichit, who’s been messaging Hae-il all morning, members of Seung-gil’s extended family are also present and scattered elsewhere.

And right now, they’re all focused on him.

Seung-gil folds his arms on the barrier, surprised by the swell of emotion in his chest.

He peeks up at Celestino, but his coach has no words of encouragement for him today. Just a smile.

Seung-gil nods, closes his eyes, and breathes.

In. Deep, full, hold.

Out. Slow, slower.

When he opens his eyes, Celestino says, “I’ll take your jacket,” with warmth.

Seung-gil nods. He ignores the trickle of screams when he pulls his arms free of the sleeves. It’s part of the background noise for him at this point in his career.

Still….

He knows this costume is Phichit’s favorite, so he hides a smirk and makes a bit of a show of stretching his arms over his head to lengthen his torso for the cameras.

Then he hands the jacket to Celestino, whose face is cast over with amusement.

“You feel good?” Celestino asks.

Seung-gil tips his head to the side. “Pretty much,” he says, which elicits a laugh from his coach.

 _Make it into a day of risks,_ Celestino told him, back in Bangkok. _A day of firsts._

He was encouraging more quads in his program at the time, yes, but…there are other ways to interpret that advice, aren’t there?

Firsts.

Firsts….

 _Try to have fun,_ Seung-gil tells himself.

He hands his jacket to Celestino and nods once.

He may even try the quad flip. He only has a 63% chance of landing it, but—

What the fuck.

Why not.

This…cavalier attitude is definitely a first, and it lights up his nerves one by one as he pushes off the barrier.

His irreverent smile grows by degrees until he’s in his starting pose, and the thought of what the commentators will say about it—what it means for his _image_ and the reasons they’ll create to explain something _so out of character_ —sparks a silent breath of laughter from him as he ducks his head and tries to control himself.

It’s time.

He’s ready.

•

Where his short program felt years long, his free is over in a heartbeat.

Only the rapid drumming of his heart, the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to his skin, and the indistinct cheers from the audience convince him that it’s really, honestly finished.

He bows, panting, and feels a drop of sweat separate from the tip of his nose and dive for the ice below.

Celestino has a new smile waiting for him along with his skate guards and his jacket.

Seung-gil's announced score is almost meaningless for the wild roar of blood in his ears, and the numbers on the monitor might as well be scrawled in another language’s cursive.

Then, in the same moment Celestino locks an arm around his shoulders, it clicks.

He doesn’t cry, but his face does blanch significantly paler.

•

When Seung-gil was sixteen, the PyeongChang Olympics were decided, and over the next several months, a rare smile began to steal across Min-so’s lips.

She gathered all of her skaters for the announcement, of course, and gave the speech they expected her to make, but she had her eyes fixed on Seung-gil the entire time she spoke.

Later, privately, she told him, “The Olympics are rare enough, but for your country to _host_ them when you’re in your athletic prime is _infinitesimally_ rare. I expect you to put ten times the effort in from now on. Everything we do from today onward is for the Olympics, Seung-gil. Everything. Every practice, every meal, every night of sleep. It’s all for that handful of days that will change your life. Do you understand what you have to do?”

He didn’t. He even honestly thought that the way her eyes glinted made her look a little unbalanced. But he said, “Yes,” because what else could he say to his coach?

That smile of hers brightened and she said, “We’ll do it together,” and Seung-gil nodded with a grain of discomfort in his chest.

•

In retrospect, from that moment onward, he never had a chance at gold.

He knew from the start that he’d never achieve Min-so’s dream.

•

It’s a short walk from the kiss and cry to the green room where Yuri Plisetsky and Katsuki Yuuri are seated.

Seung-gil gingerly takes a seat between them on one of three small gray sofas set up to accommodate the current top three. Despite the appearance of comfort, this area isn’t intended for their relaxation, made apparent by the live cameras facing them and recording everything they do in high definition.

Seung-gil decides to be annoyed by it later. The adrenaline spiking through his system now has him exhausted and he can’t dredge up his usual exasperation for the pomp and ceremony required of him off the ice.

He pushes his hair back, grateful for the sweat that dampens it and locks it into place out of his eyes. His fingers aren’t as cold as he expects them to be.

His jacket is a little damp from dropping it on a patch of wet floor as he avoided colliding with harried staff.

His bottom lip is chapped. He’s not sure when he was chewing on it.

He’s going to receive an Olympic medal.

Whether it’s silver or bronze is unclear, with Giacometti still left to skate, but…he’s going to receive an Olympic medal.

A medal. From the Olympics.

It doesn’t matter that his score is a good distance from the top—he’s in second, and there’s only one skater left.

Whatever the math ends up being, he’s guaranteed a medal.

…From the Olympics….

Seung-gil isn’t sure exactly how this sofa situation has been progressing so far. Phichit was here for a bit, he knows, and spent most of his time messaging Seung-gil selfies and commentary. Or so Phichit told him, since Phichit also has _his_ phone.

He isn’t surprised by Plisetsky’s presence. According to a cluster of reporters and skaters Seung-gil overheard on the way back here, Plisetsky’s loss at the Grand Prix in December ignited something vehement and determined in his heart that made him virtually unstoppable today. It explains why he’s staring at the monitor now with flared nostrils and an intent frown.

People call him something. Ice something. Ice lion? Ice cub?

Katsuki, sitting to Seung-gil’s left, was comfortably in second…until Seung-gil displaced him by 3.21 points. If Katsuki’s upset by his move to third, his face doesn’t show it. He even nods at Seung-gil with polite familiarity, and Seung-gil returns the gesture with only a little awkwardness.

While they wait for Giacometti to begin, the three of them create a unified miasma of complicated silence.

Plisetsky’s the one to break it. “That was your first flip, wasn’t it?” he asks Seung-gil, still staring at the monitor.

Seung-gil says, “Yes.”

Plisetsky swears in Russian without heat. “You’re going to be a problem too, aren’t you?” he asks in English.

Seung-gil doesn’t even think about it. “Yes.”

The noise to his left draws his eye, and he’s surprised by Katsuki’s wry smirk. When Katsuki realizes he’s been caught, he hides it by wiping his face with his sleeve a few times until he’s wiped his expression blank again.

Seung-gil lets his gaze drift away, mysteriously pleased.

“Your music doesn’t suit you,” Plisetsky says.

Katsuki startles, but Seung-gil says, “I know,” toward the monitor. Plisetsky’s bluntness is refreshing. “This was an off season for me.”

And…saying it like that—puts a finite end to all of this, doesn’t it?

“It’s not over yet,” Plisetsky points out

He’s right about that, too. Worlds will be on them soon, and only once it’s over will Seung-gil be able to fully concentrate on revamping…everything. From scratch.

Next season can—and will—be different in almost every conceivable way.

•

In the end, the heart-rending success story of the day features not Seung-gil, not Katsuki Yuuri, not Yuri Plisetsky, but Christophe Giacometti.

Giacometti, who the commentators have been speculating may have plans to retire after this season, achieves a final score 1.11 points above Katsuki, and secures himself an Olympic bronze medal for what will absolutely be his last Olympics. There’s a great deal of crying between Giacometti and his coach in the kiss and cry, as well as from his fans and the other spectators in the crowd.

As Katsuki quietly stands to leave the triangle of sofas, Seung-gil twists and catches his wrist.

The emotion in the eyes that meet his is unfamiliar. Seung-gil doesn’t know Katsuki well enough to recognize any of what he’s seeing, but he knows this sting. Like they all do.

He releases Katsuki and pays him the respect of standing for what he wants to say. Katsuki is a competitor, and practically a stranger, and there will be countless people trying to boost his spirits the moment he reenters the world outside this area, but Seung-gil wants Katsuki to know what he thinks of him before he leaves. As a skater, and as a fellow member of their community.

“Your skating,” he says, “is formidable. I look forward to competing again at Worlds.”

With a single blink, Katsuki’s expression is transformed to one much more open and a bit confused. But not unhappy.

Plisetsky appears by Seung-gil’s shoulder and whacks Katsuki’s bicep. He shoots Seung-gil a look far too stern for a sixteen-year-old, clearly indicating a request for space. He even adds, “Excuse us,” with a clear undercurrent of exasperation with social niceties that Seung-gil commiserates with.

He moves back to the sofa and allows the two of them room.

Plisetsky surprises all present, from Katsuki himself to the staff hovering just beyond the cameras, and yanks Katsuki by the back of the neck into a rough hug. Whatever he says next is muffled and sharp and will become the subject of furious online debate for years.

Seung-gil, fingers clasped over the knee of his crossed leg, politely ignores them and becomes a meme.

Again.

•

That first sensation of tangible Olympic victory clutched cold and smooth in his fingers will thrive in Seung-gil’s memory for the rest of his life.

•

Gold was Min-so’s dream.

Seung-gil’s was satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY THE EPILOGUE LEFT NOW. ♡
> 
> This story has been such an enjoyable experience for me, and I only made it this far because of the lovely warm feedback you all gave me. I'm deeply grateful, and I thank each of you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> The epilogue shouldn't take much longer! It's basically a world of Feelings, so I hope you look forward to that. ;D


	28. Epilogue - Future

Worlds ends, Phichit’s birthday passes, and then it’s May.

•

Phichit’s birthday video confirming their relationship to the world goes over rather well, compared to Seung-gil’s expectations.

A few hashtags that their fans have apparently already been using for months begin to trend in earnest, and when Phichit uses one of them underneath a photo of his fingers intertwined with Seung-gil’s, their fans exceed their usual capacity for joy. Seung-gil wonders aloud if Twitter can stall, and Phichit confirms that it can, but he doubts something like this would do it.

(Which leads Seung-gil to wonder in mystified horror what it _would_ take.)

Neither Phichit nor Seung-gil answer any questions about their relationship from either the press or the public. Instead, Phichit amuses himself by posting first screenshots of their chats and then photos of Seung-gil, who puts up with all of this because their fans’ reactions are actually pretty funny.

Seung-gil was the one who suggested not answering the questions they’re asked in words, and Phichit only agreed out of respect for Seung-gil’s boundaries. But after he’s posted a few photos in lieu of worded answers, he seems to unearth a fun new reason to uphold his promise.

When a Canadian fan asks, [How long have you been together?!?!?!] and thirty other people have hearted it (“Liked it,” Phichit corrects absently), Phichit posts a photo of the plush Seung-gil brought to France for him.

The fans figure that one out fairly quickly.

But when a Korean fan asks Seung-gil, [IS HE BEING GOOD TO YOU?], Phichit—still in charge of Seung-gil’s Twitter account—snaps a photo of Seung-gil’s elbow and posts that in response. Their fans have _no_ idea what to do with it, but they don’t seem likely to give up on sussing out a meaning. Seung-gil almost feels bad for them, because Phichit spent thirty seconds thinking up the most meaningless photo he could take just to mess with them all.

“I like this side of you,” Seung-gil tells Phichit.

Phichit pecks his temple with an aura of smugness and uploads the following to Instagram: a selfie he took last month in Seoul, a Googled snapshot of a suitcase he considered but never ended up buying, and a photo he took two weeks ago of their plastic cups of bubble tea embedded in the sand. He tags the post with things like #paradise and #romanticgetaway.

The first comment is someone wanting to know, _[wHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY????]_

Phichit laughs and starts to fill the reply box with a line of nonsensical emoji.

Seung-gil, in a rare moment of empathy for strangers he’s never going to meet, pulls Phichit into his lap to distract him from tormenting their devoted fanbase for a while.

•

When it comes time to make a decision, Seung-gil chooses Bangkok as his base for the upcoming season.

Naturally, the paperwork involved is hideous.

•

For Seung-gil’s new programs, Celestino offers suggestions of classical arrangements that Seung-gil dismissed years ago as a junior skater and never bothered considering again. Celestino patiently explains how a different approach to choreography can alter the mood of each piece, and Seung-gil listens.

He doesn’t agree at all, but listening teaches him one important thing about Celestino: the man doesn’t want to lead—he wants to collaborate.

Ultimately, though, Seung-gil chooses none of Celestino’s suggestions. Instead, he takes a page from Phichit’s book and selects an epic track off the soundtrack of a fantasy movie Guang Hong insisted on watching together online with some other skaters.

He gives Celestino some intelligent reasons he made up on the fly because he doesn’t want to say the real reason—which is that he spent the entirety of that movie reclined in Phichit’s arms with his back against Phichit’s chest and so hearing the music makes his heart lighter.

To Seung-gil’s relief, Celestino accepts his reasoning without suspicion, but it’s unclear how long Seung-gil will be able to get away with fooling him.

•

The first time he skates the piece in practice, Phichit perks up and calls across the ice, “Oh! This is from that movie we watched last month, right?” and effortlessly shatters Seung-gil’s admittedly slipshod facade.

Celestino says nothing, but Seung-gil learns not to trust his poker face. Hours later, with absolutely zero provocation, Celestino posts a snap of Seung-gil skating to his music with “this is from that movie they watched last month right” written across the video.

•

Far from shying away from the voracious appetite of his skaters’ fans, Celestino merrily tags himself #patronsaintofseungchuchucontent.

“I didn’t come up with it,” he tells a reporter during an interview that should have _absolutely nothing to do_ with his skaters’ relationship. “But I’m happy to accept the position.”

Phichit is no help—instead of using Celestino’s official handles, he makes unofficial accounts called @saintseungchuchu across every social media platform on which he participates and uses those instead.

Seung-gil offers no comments and zero reactions.

He won’t give either of them the satisfaction.

•

Their newly public relationship is a source of delight for not only their fans, but for Hae-il as well.

In a Q&A video on his YouTube channel, Hae-il says, “Everyone in my family thought he’d end up marrying a steak restaurant, but it’s nice to know he’ll settle for a more traditional sort of meat. Moving on!”

Seung-gil photoshopped on dates with Korean BBQ becomes a meme.

Seung-gil doesn’t like being a meme.

Or Lee Hae-il’s younger brother.

•

Min-so’s next interview mentions Seung-gil by name.

It’s the first time she’d done so in over four months, apparently, if the journalist writing the article is to be believed.

“Of her former skater,” it reads, “Olympic silver medalist Lee Seung-gil, Park had this to say: ‘Lee has a great deal of raw skill, but that wouldn’t have taken him to where he is today without the drive to match it. I’m proud of him, and I know he’s in good hands with Coach Cialdini.’”

When Seung-gil finally forces himself to read to that point, he exhales the last of a long breath. He doesn’t know why he keeps expecting Min-so to do or say something unprofessional, but the irrational fear that she might passes.

Whatever she thinks of him personally, she can consider her time with him worthy of her effort.

Whatever he thinks of her personally, he can respect her without following her.

At the next appropriate opportunity, perhaps he’ll reach out to her.

For now, Seung-gil asks Phichit to retweet the article on Seung-gil’s own Twitter account. He trusts that she’ll hear about it within four minutes or so.

•

Supatra takes him to a dog cafe near the courts where she practices. After they’ve left, she uploads a photo of him and a great big Samoyed gazing solemnly at each other. She doesn’t use any hashtags at all, but somehow his fans find and repost her photo to Twitter within minutes.

“Your fans are _terrifying_ ,” she says for the tenth time, back at Phichit’s apartment.

Seung-gil extends his arm for Arthur to climb and says, “Yes.”

They’re…zealous.

But….

“They’re mostly harmless,” he concedes. “Sometimes.”

•

Seung-gil spends an entire afternoon sprawled in a chair on Phichit’s balcony writing emails back and forth between Sunja’s veterinarian, Dae-sung, and the owner of Phichit’s building. By four o’clock, he’s scheduled Sunja for her vaccinations, elicited a promise from Dae-sung to take care of it on his behalf, and gotten exactly nowhere with the owner of Phichit’s building.

She’s made it clear to Seung-gil—in two languages—that she will allow only cats and small dogs in her building, but Sunja is…neither of those. He’s not giving up, though—Sunja is his roommate no matter where he lives and he’s not budging on that. Still…he’ll probably need Phichit’s help in this.

The ongoing combination of switching back and forth between his native and adopted languages has Seung-gil’s head throbbing by the time Phichit arrives to collect him for dinner. At the touch of Phichit’s hands on his shoulders, Seung-gil tips his head back and makes a silent plea for a ban on words for the rest of the day.

Phichit smiles and bends down to nuzzle into his hair. That’s his unspoken answer, apparently.

It’s becoming somewhat common, this agreed-upon quiet, and it helps keep Seung-gil’s stress levels manageable. Phichit doesn’t seem to mind Seung-gil’s monosyllabic spells, and Seung-gil tries to communicate with him in ways outside the verbal, which Phichit seems to appreciate.

•

It takes Phichit exactly one month after uploading the video that confirmed their relationship to make approximately three hundred relationship-related posts across every social media account between them that he has access to.

Seung-gil is making no posts and is quite enjoying the experience.

•

Phichit keeps in closer touch with Seung-gil’s family than Seung-gil does.

He follows them all on whatever social media they use, tries to talk with Dae-sung over joint video calls to Sunja in broken Korean, and Seung-gil’s parents frequently include notes to or about Phichit in their emails to Seung-gil.

Hae-il often retweets Phichit’s posts (and threads), and when one of Hae-il’s own fans compliments him on being such a loving older brother, Hae-il writes back, _[It’s literally only because it bothers him.]_

When Seung-gil hears about this, he tells Phichit to respond with a gif of someone giving the middle finger using Seung-gil’s account. Phichit says he will and then doesn’t.

The twins start a YouTube cooking channel and ask Phichit to promote it for them, which he does happily.

Seung-gil supposes it’s reasonable, then, for people to assume that Phichit’s been fully embraced by Seung-gil’s family. It’s not until a fan teases Phichit on Twitter about being the new favorite Lee child and Phichit answers with a flippant, [Well, everyone’s favorite except his grandmother’s—since we haven’t met yet], that Seung-gil grimaces.

He’s definitely in Trouble.

•

Phichit insists on dressing up for the occasion. He almost goes with formal Thai clothing—which…why? because she’s old?—but at the last minute he panics and puts on a suit and tie.

He fidgets in the car far more than he did before meeting any other member of Seung-gil’s family, and he even chews on his lip, which he rarely does.

Seung-gil parks the rental car in front of his parents’ place and turns to take Phichit’s face between his hands.

“Calm. Down. You’re going to tear your lip. And I don’t want to taste blood while we’re having sex later.”

Phichit’s eyes widen in abject horror. “Why would you say that before we meet your _grandmother?_ ”

Seung-gil hides a grin. “Why are you so afraid? She’s just like me.”

“ _That doesn’t help! At! All!_ ”

There’s some more unnecessary panicking, some explained reasons for the panicking that are ridiculous, and then Phichit demands a hug, which Seung-gil is happy to give him. While Phichit continues his stream of worries in whispers against Seung-gil’s neck, Seung-gil strokes the back of Phichit’s hair until he feels the wire-taut muscles in Phichit’s body start to relax.

“I know how much you respect her,” Phichit murmurs. “She can get to know all of me eventually, but I want her to see the best sides of me first.”

Seung-gil doesn’t tell Phichit that out of everyone in his family, his grandmother has probably been the most active participant in keeping them together. He’s not sure if it’d help or just put on more pressure, and he’ll hear about it eventually anyway, no doubt.

The main floor of the house is empty when they walk in, and Seung-gil feels bizarre wearing a suit in his own parents’ house. But he wasn’t about to let Phichit do the whole formal thing on his own, so.

Dumb, stiff suit.

He calls for his grandmother at the base of the stairs and she calls back a very plain, almost rude, “ _What?_ ”

Seung-gil gives Phichit a _see?_ look.

When she appears, she’s in Western clothes and holding a paperback and her gaze immediately zeroes in on Phichit.

Seung-gil joins her in looking, concerned, but Phichit’s already starting to smile, and Seung-gil’s pleased to see it’s the sweet one that comes naturally to him.

Good. _Good._

When Phichit offers her a wai, Seung-gil doesn’t expect her to return it, albeit with a little less formality. But that…makes sense. She’s…

…older, and—

—what the fuck? How does she know—

Seung-gil’s grandmother smirks at him. “You’re the only one who can study different cultures?” she asks.

Phichit makes a giddy noise of surprised elation and hides his grin behind his wrist.

“Do you drink tea?” she asks Phichit.

He nods earnestly. “Yes, ma’am,” he says in careful, slow Korean.

“Call me ‘grandmother,’” she says, taking his hand between both of hers and squeezing fondly.

Phichit doesn’t cry right there, but from the depth of emotion in his eyes, he will later.

•

Many of the brightest parts of Seung-gil’s life so far have been unassuming from the outside. They light him up from the inside, where no one else can see.

Only twice has he experienced brightness that had a tangible form.

One was a medal he won.

One was a person who helped him believe he could.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/28850422@N04/43328571505/in/datetaken-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seungchuchu experience has reached its end!
> 
> Of course, it won't be the last from me. ♡ After 180k, I've put too much into this version of YOI to let it go just yet. ;)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who offered kind words and encouragement along the way. I've said it already, but it was enormously motivating and without you, I truly don't think I would have gotten to this point. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. :)
> 
> If you have any short side fics you'd like to see in this universe, let me know!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the experience, and that you'll drop by the next time I bring some more seungchuchu to the table. :D/
> 
> [Art]
> 
> A special thanks to @munette for her gorgeous artwork. I wanted some art to close this off with, so I commissioned her for a happy, contented piece. And I'm delighted I did. \:D/


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